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This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it  may  be 
renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 

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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/picturesqueameri02brya 


PICTURESQUE  AMERICA; 


OR, 


THE  LAND  WE  LIVE  IN. 


A  DELINEATION  BY  PEN  AND  PENCIL 


OF 


THE  MOUNTAINS,  RIVERS,  LAKES,  FORESTS,  WATER-FALLS,  SHORES 

CANONS,   VALLEYS,   CITIES,  AND   OTHER   PICTURESQUE 

FEATURES   OF   OUR   COUNTRY. 


W\\\  %\\m\mX\tm  m  f  M  mi  W004  bjj  ^mxmX  %xm\tM  %-iX\M* 


EDITED  BY  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


VOL.    II. 


NEW    YORK: 
D.     APPLETON      AND     COMPANY, 

549    &     551     BROADWAY. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

D.  APPLETON    AND   COMPANY, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


CONTENTS,    VOLUME    SECOND. 


SUBJECT. 

HIGHLANDS    AND    PALISADES    OF    THE 
HUDSON. 

PHILADELPHIA   AND   ITS    SUBURBS. 

NORTHERN   NEW   JERSEY. 

VALLEY   OF   THE   CONNECTICUT. 

BALTIMORE  AND    ENVIRONS. 

THE   CATSKILLS. 

THE   JUNIATA. 

ON   THE   OHIO. 

THE   PLAINS   AND   THE   SIERRAS. 

THE   SUSQUEHANNA. 

BOSTON. 

LAKE   GEORGE   AND   LAKE   CHAMPLAIN. 

MOUNT   MANSFIELD. 

VALLEY   OF   THE   HOUSATONIC. 

THE   UPPER   MISSISSIPPL 

VALLEY   OF   THE   GENESEE. 

ST.    LAWRENCE  AND   THE   SAGUENAY. 

EASTERN   SHORE. 

THE  ADIRONDACK   REGION. 

THE  CONNECTICUT  SHORE  OF  THE  SOUND. 

LAKE   MEMPHREMAGOG. 


E.     L.    BURLINGAME. 

C.    D.    Gardette. 
W.  F.  Williams. 
W.   C.   Richards. 
J.   C.   Carpenter. 
Henry  A.   Brown. 
R.  E.   Garczynski. 
Constance  F.  Woolson. 
E.   L.   Burlingame. 
R.   E.   Garczynski. 
G.   M.    Towle. 

O.     B.     BUNCE. 

Rossiter  Johnson. 
W.   C.  Richards. 
R.   E.   Garczynski. 
W.    S.  Ward. 

W.    H.     RiDEING. 

G.  M.   Towle. 
Robert  Carter. 
W.  C.   Richards. 
W.   H.   Rideing. 


ARTIST. 

PAGE 

Harry  Fenn. 

I 

Granville  Perkitis. 

23 

Jules    Tavernier. 

47 

J.   D.    Woodward. 

61 

Granville  Perkins. 

97 

Harry   Fenn. 

116 

Granville  Perkins. 

134 

Alfred  R.    Waud. 

146 

Thomas  Moran. 

168 

Granville  Perkins. 

204 

J.    D.    Woodward. 

229 

Harry  Fenn. 

253 

Harry  Fenn. 

276 

J.   D.    Woodward, 

288 

Alfred  R.    Waud. 

318 

J.   D.    Woodward. 

353 

James  D.   Smillie. 

370 

J.   D.    Woodward. 

395 

Harry   Fenn. 

414 

W.    H.    Gibson. 

436 

J.   D.    Woodward. 

451 

< 


IV 


CONTENTS,     VOLUME    SECOND. 


SUBJECT. 

THE  MOHAWK,  ALBANY,  AND  TROY. 

THE  UPPER  DELAWARE. 

WATER-FALLS  AT  CAYUGA  LAKE. 

THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS. 

THE  CANONS  OF  THE  COLORADO. 

CHICAGO  AND  MILWAUKEE. 

A  GLANCE  AT  THE  NORTHWEST, 

THE  MAMMOTH  CAVE. 

NEW  YORK  AND  BROOKLYN. 

WASHINGTON, 


AUTHOR. 

ARTIST. 

PAGE 

R. 

E.    Garczynski. 

Woodward  and  Fenn. 

457 

W. 

H.     RiDEING. 

J.   D.    Woodward. 

471 

W. 

H,     RIDEING. 

J.   D.    Woodward. 

477 

W. 

H.     RiDEING, 

Thomas  Mora7t. 

482 

J- 

E.    COLBURN, 

Thomas  Moran. 

503 

0. 

B.     BUNCE. 

Alfred  R.    Waud. 

512 

W. 

H,     RiDEING, 

Alfred  R.    Waud. 

529 

w. 

H.     RiDEING. 

Alfred  R.    Waud. 

540 

0. 

B.     BUNCE. 

Harry  Feiin. 

545 

G. 

M.     TOWLE. 

W.    L.    Shefpard. 

566 

LIST    OF    ENGRAVINGS    ON    STEEL. 


VOLUME     SECOND. 


SUBJECT. 

NEW  YORK,  FROM   BROOKLYN   HEIGHTS. 

DOME   OF   THE   CAPITOL. 

WEST   POINT. 

MOUTH   OF   THE   MOODNA. 

PHILADELPHIA,   FROM   BELMONT. 

CONNECTICUT   VALLEY,  FROM   MOUNT  TOM. 

BALTIMORE,   FROM   DRUID-HILL   PARK. 

SUNRISE,  FROM  SOUTH  MOUNTAIN,  CATSKILL. 

CITY   OF   CINCINNATI. 

CITY   OF   LOUISVILLE. 

EMIGRANTS   CROSSING   THE   PLAINS. 

CALIFORNIANS   LASSOING   BEAR. 

THE   SUSQUEHANNA. 

BOSTON,    FROM   SOUTH   BOSTON. 

LAKE   GEORGE. 

THE  HOUSATONIC. 

THE  CITY   OF   ST.   LOUIS. 

QUEBEC. 

BEVERLY   COAST,   MASSACHUSETTS. 


ARTIST. 

engraver. 

FACE   PAGE. 

A.  C.  Warren. 

G. 

R.  Hall. 

Frontispiece. 

Harry  Fenn. 

E. 

P.    Brandard. 

Title-page. 

Harry  Fenn. 

S. 

V.  Hunt. 

FACE      9 

David  Johnson. 

G. 

W.    Wellstood. 

21 

Granville  Perkins. 

R. 

Hinshelwood. 

40 

J.  D.  Woodward. 

R. 

Hinshelwood. 

80 

Granville  Perkins. 

R. 

Hins/ielwood. 

97 

Harry  Fenn. 

S. 

V.  Hunt. 

126 

A.  C.  Warren. 

IV. 

Wellstood.      . 

161 

A.  C.  Warren. 

E. 

P.  Brattdard. 

165 

F.   0.    C.    Darley. 

H. 

B.   Hall. 

176 

F.    0.   C.    Darley. 

F. 

Holl. 

201 

Granville  Perkins. 

R. 

Hinshelwood. 

216 

J.   D.   Woodward. 

E. 

P.  Brandard. 

233 

J.  W.   Casilear. 

R. 

Hinshelwood. 

256 

A.   F.   Bellows. 

S. 

V.  Hunt. 

289 

A.  C.  Warren. 

R. 

Hinshelwood. 

321 

J.   D.  Woodward. 

R. 

Hinshelwood. 

384 

J.   F.   Kensett. 

S. 

V.   Hunt. 

401 

vi  LIST    OF   ENGRAVINGS    ON   STEEL. 

SUBJECT. 

ADIRONDACK  WOODS. 

EAST   ROCK,   NEW   HAVEN. 

THE   ROCKY   MOUNTAINS. 

CITY   OF   MILWAUKEE. 

TERRACE,    CENTRAL   PARK. 

WASHINGTON,   FROM   ARLINGTON   HEIGHTS. 


ARTIST. 

ENGRAVER. 

FACE   PAGE. 

J- 

M.    Hart. 

R. 

Hiiishelwood. 

425 

C. 

G.   Griswold. 

S. 

V.   Hunt. 

444 

w. 

Whitteredge. 

R. 

Hinshelwood. 

488 

A. 

C.  Warren. 

R. 

Hi7ishelwood. 

528 

C. 

Rosenberg. 

G. 

R.   Hall. 

557 

W. 

L.  Sheppard. 

R. 

Hinshelwood. 

569 

PICTURESQUE   AMERICA. 


Poughkeepsie,  and  its  Founderies  at  Night. 


HIGHLANDS    AND    PALISADES    OF    THE    HUDSON. 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS     BY     HARRY     FENN. 


'nr^O  those  who  are  wiUing  to  accept   such   unobtrusive   companionship   as  we   have   to 

-*-       offer,  in  this  artist's  voyage  among  the  noblest  scenes  of  our   most    beautiful    and 

perfect  American  river,  we  must  say  at  the  beginning  that  we  shall  not    follow    the    tra- 


2  ■         PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

ditions  of  the  ordinary  guide.  To  him  it  matters  httle  by  what  path  he  leads  a  trav- 
eller to  the  most  glorious  outlook,  nor  does  he  care  for  his  observer's  frame  of  mind  ; 
he  will  suddenly  show  you  the  Rhine-fall  from  the  back-door  of  a  dingy  beer-house,  and 
point  out  your  first  view  of  Niagara  through  the  dusty  window  of  a  hackney-coach. 
To  us,  the  way  of  approach  seems  of  no  little  moment ;  and  here  especially,  among  the 
scenes  we  know  so  well,  we  have  our  fixed  ideas  of  the  traveller's  most  satisfying  course. 
The  true  way,  then,  to  learn  the  noblest  beauties  of  the  Hudson's  grandest  region, 
is  to  enter  the  Highlands  with  the  river's  course;  beginning  the  voyage  from  some 
point  above,  watching  the  growing  picturesqueness  of  the  stream,  and  noting  the  gradual 
rise  of  the  hills,  the  increasing  grandeur  of  their  outline,  and  the  deepening  majesty  of 
their  presence,  until,  with  his  heart  full  of  this  slowly-gaining  beauty,  one  finds  himself 
among  the  perfect  pictures  which  lie  in  the  very  midst  of  the  mountain-group.  Let  us 
enter  on  our  journey  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  then,  from  some  point  at  a  little  dis- 
tance up  the  river.     Newburg  is  too  near  the  Highlands ;    it  lies  in  the    shadow  of  their 


The  Hudson,  south  from  Newburg. 


HIGHLANDS   AND    PALISADES    OF    THE    HUDSON. 


On  the  Old  Newburgr  Toll-Road. 


very    gates ;    let    us    be- 
gin   our  voyage    at   that 
point  of  practical  as  well 
as     theoretical     convenience  —  at 
Poughkeepsie. 

Indeed,  our  place  of  depart- 
ure is  itself,  in  the  matter  of 
picturesque  outlook,  not  to  be 
despised.  The  "  rural  city,"  as  one  of  our  writers  has  called  it,  lies  very  pleasantly 
upon  its  group  of  gentle  hills,  and  overlooks  a  bright  and  sunny  portion  of  the  river- 
view.  By  day,  one  may  quarrel  a  little  with  the  smoke  of  its  busy  founderies,  but  by 
night  these  become  the  most  strangely  beautiful  and  striking  feature  in  many  miles  of 
the  Hudson's  scenery.  They  light  the  river  like  weird  beacons,  and  the  sound  of  their 
great  furnaces  _comes  across  the  water  in  the  stillness,  as  the  panting  of  giants  that  toil 
when  the  weaker  forces  of  the  world  are  all  asleep. 

Our  departure  from  Poughkeepsie  allows  us  to  approach  the  Highlands  by  the 
"  Long  Reach " — that  quiet  and  sunny  portion  of  the  river's  course  that  here  lies  like 
a  broad,  straight  avenue  between  the  beautiful  banks,  for  more  than  twenty  miles.  Its 
upper   extremity  is   at    Crom    Elbow — the  Krom    Elleboge  of  the  old  Dutch  settlers;   its 


PICTURESQUE   AMERICA. 


C3 


lower  is  at  Newburg.  Sail- 
ing down  it,  we  pass  many- 
points  which  their  history, 
as  well  as  their  beauty, 
makes  noteworthy.  Here, 
on  the  eastern  bank,  two 
miles  below  the  town,  is 
Locust  Grove,  entitled  to 
remembrance  as  the  summer 
home  of  Morse,  whose  name 
the  wires  of  his  telegraph 
have  told  to  all  the  world. 
A  mile  or  two  farther  on, 
where  Spring  Brook  comes 
into  the  Hudson,  lived  stout 
Theophilus  Anthony,  the 
blacksmith,  a  century  ago, 
who  helped  to  forge  the 
great  chain  that  once  guard- 
ed the  river  at  Fort  Mont- 
gomery, below.  Farther  still 
in  the  Long  Reach  lie  the 
bright  little  villages  of  Mil- 
ton and  Marlborough,  al- 
most hidden  from  the  river 
by  the  high  banks ;  we  pass 
New  Hamburg,  too,  called 
into  sad  prominence  a  year 
or  two  ago  by  one  of  the 
terrible  disasters  that  are  all 
too  common  now ;  and  so, 
noting  picturesque  little 
Fishkill  on  our  left,  we 
come  upon  the  beautiful 
Newburg  Bay  —  the  most 
perfect  of  the  Hudson's  har- 
bors. 

Close    by    the    gate    of 
the  Highlands,  opposite    the 


WEST     POINT,     AND     SCENES     IN     VICINITY 


6 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


range  of  the  Fishkill 
hills,  and  overlooking  a 
stretch  of  river  and  shore 
such  as  you  may  hardly 
find  anywhere  else  in 
the  world,  Newburg  lies, 
with  its  bright  group 
of  picturesquely-clustered 
houses,  with  memories 
of  old  Revolutionary 
days  surrounding  it,  and 
every  association  con- 
nected with  it  that 
should  make  it  a  marked 
town  among  our  historic 
places.  Here  were  Wash- 
ington's headquarters  dur- 
ing a  part  of  the  storm- 
iest of  the  war  -  time  ; 
and  here,  in  combating 
with  the  strongest  and 
simpliest  eloquence,  the  work  of  the  famous  "  Newburg 
Addi esses,"  he  perhaps,  more  than  anywhere  else,  showed 
how  great  agents  were  his  strength  of  will  and  earnest  purpose  in  the  sal- 
vation of  the  country. 

It  is  with  the  beauty  of  the  old  town,  however,  and  not  with  its  his- 
tory, that  we  have  to  do.  From  the  shore  below  it  we  have  gained  one  of  the  most 
perfect  views  of  this  noble  part  of  the  Hudson's  course.  We  see  the  entrance  of  the 
Highlands,  and  the  broad  expanse  of  water  lying  between  this  and  the  town.  This  is 
the  very  perfection  of  an  approach  to  the  glorious  scenery  below.  The  broad  bay  forms 
a  kind  of  enchanted  border-region,  which  the  true  guide  will  let  his  visitor  study  well ; 
and  it  and  its  shores — along  which  one  should  pass  to  fully  learn  the  beauty  of  the  great 
stretch  of  sunny  river — put  one  in  the  truest  mood  for  the  first  sight  of  the  grander 
aspects  of  mountain  and  stream  upon  which  he  is  to  look  with  the  next  stage  of  his  jour- 
ney. One  should  pass,  we  say,  along  the  shore  as  well  as  make  the  voyage  upon  the 
river,  to  catch  the  full  beauty  of  this  scene  in  Newburg  Bay.  The  old  toll-road  runs 
along  the  western  bank  of  the  Hudson  here,  and  gives  from  time  to  time  such  glimpses 
of  the  hills  below  as  are  worth  a  day's  travel  to  seek.  From  one  of  these  Mr.  Fenn 
has  shown  the  very  spirit  of  the  whole  scene.     This  is  a  portion  of  the  journey  that  no 


St.  Mary's  Church   at 
Cold   Spring. 


HIGHLANDS   AND    PALISADES    OF    THE    HUDSON.  7 

one  should  miss.     And  now  we  are  within  the  gates  of  the  Highlands  themselves,  in  the 
presence  of  the  great  Storm-King  and  the  dark  pile  of  the  Cro'-Nest. 

To  us  these  two  noble  mountains  are  the  grandest  of  the  Highland  range.  They 
have  a  charm  that  might  induce  a  man  to  live  in  their  shadow  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  have  them  always  before  him,  day  and  night,  to  study  their  ever-changing  beauty. 
For  they  are  never  twice  alike ;  the  clouds  make  varying  pictures  all  day  long  on  their 
wooded   sides,  and    nowhere   have  we   seen   more    wonderful   effects    of  shadow    and   sun- 


Glimpse  of  the  Hudson  from  Fort  Putnam. 


shine.  Under  the  frown 
of  a  low  thunder-cloud 
they  take  on  a  grim 
majesty  that  makes  their 
black  masses  strangely-  threatening  and  weird  ;  one 
forgets  to  measure  their  height,  and  their  massive, 
strongly-marked  features,  by  any  common  standard 
of  every-day  measurement,  and  they  seem  to 
tower  and  overshadow  all  the  scene  around  them,  like  the  very  rulers  and  controllers  of 
the  coming  storm.  And  when  the  sunlight  comes  back  again,  they  seem  to  have 
brought  it,  and  to  look  down  with  a  bright  benignity,  like  giant  protectors  of  the  valley 
that  lies  below. 

Beyond  them,  on  a  remarkable  and  beautiful  promontory,  extending  into  the  river 
at  what  seems  to  us  the  most  perfect  point  of  the  whole  course  of  the  Hudson,  lies 
West    Point.      It   has   always   been  to  us  an   ideal  place.      In    its    shores,  every    view    of 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


which  is  full  of  picturesque 
charm  ;  in  the  dark  back- 
ground of  its  hills;  in  the 
aspect  —  somewhat  unusual 
in  our  America  —  of  its 
earthworks  and  defences, 
and  all  the  surroundings 
that  have  been  given  it  by 
the  long  years  of  its  occu- 
pancy as  a  military  school ; 
in  its  broad  plain,  forming 
the  central  ground  of  hu- 
man action,  on  which  the 
great  natural  amphitheatre 
of  the  Highlands  looks  si- 
lently down ;  even  in  the 
grouping  of  its  cluster  of 
buildings,  and  in  the  pictu- 
resque monuments  about  it, 
that  call  up  so  many  mem- 
ories, there  seems  to  us  a  harmony  of  beauty  that  makes  the  site  of  our  important  mili- 
tary post  one  of  the  most  attractive  spots  in  the  whole  country. 

It  IS  from  West  Point,  too,  that  the  most  satisfying  views  of  the  Hudson  itself  are 


View  south  from  the  Academy  Grounds. 


a 


^ 


^ 


\ 


\ 


/  : 


r 


HIGHLANDS    AND    PALISADES    OF    THE    HUDSON.  9 

to  be  gained.  Whoever  has  looked  out  from  the  broad  veranda  of  the  hotel  near  the 
parade — the  familiar  "  Roe's " — and  seen  the  broad  reach  of  the  river  stretching  north- 
ward between  the  picturesque  dark  hills,  never  forgets  the  perfect  vista  that  lies  before 
him  here. 

Equally  beautiful  in  sunshine  and  shadow,  and  fairly  glorious  in  a  storm,  this  is 
such  a  scene  as  no  other  river  can  show.  Sit  and  watch  it  lying  under  the  sky  of  a 
cloudless  autumn  morning,  when  its  outlines  all  seem  mellowed  with  a  touch  of  golden 
haze,  and  it  is  framed  by  the  many-colored  splendors  of  the  foliage  of  late  October;  or 
see  it  when  the  perfect  beauty  of  the  new  green  of  spring  is  over  its  hills,  and  the 
river  is  just  rippled  by  a  touch  of  air ;  or,  best,  perhaps,  and  certainly  grandest  of  all, 
when  the  overhanging  thunder-cloud  of  a  summer  afternoon  comes  slowly  nearer,  and 
first  the  sharply-outlined  black  shadow,  and  then  the  distinct,  clearly-marked  edge  of  the 
pelting  storm,  approach  across  hills  and  river,  until,  with  the  growing  thunder  and  whirl 
of  rain,  you  find  yourself  overtaken  by  the  tempest ;  see  this  picture  of  the  Hudson  in 
one  of  these  aspects  or  in  all,  and  you  will  grant  that  no  Old  World  vaunted  Rhine 
can  show  you  more  and  truer  beauty  than  is  thus  given  in  our  own  home. 

But  this  perfect  river-view,  which  lies  always  before  the  visitor,  to  be  enjoyed  with- 
out an  effort,  and  to  satisfy  even  without  any  thing  else,  is  really  only  the  beginning  of 
what  West  Point  has  to  offer  to  a  lover  of  the  picturesque.  Turn  in  whatever  direction 
one  may  from  the  parade-ground  of  the  academy — the  recognized  central  point  of  all 
things  at  the  post — he  finds  new  points  of  outlook,  and  new  beauty  waiting  for  him 
everywhere.  On  the  summit  of  Mount  Independence,  an  irregular  hill,  some  distance 
back  from  the  river,  are  the  ruins  of  old  Fort  Putnam — such  ruins  as  are  left  of  the 
once  stout  work ;  and,  climbing  to  these,  one  gains  a  new  glimpse  of  the  Highlands  and 
the  water.  It  is  useless  to  try  to  show  in  words  the  different  and  always  fresh  charm 
that  each  new  point  of  observation  gives ;  nor  could  the  pencil  show  it  with  entire  suc- 
cess unless  it  could  fill  a  volume  with  sketches,  in  which  even  then  one  would  miss  the 
glorious  coloring  that  forms  a  crowning  beauty  of  these  hills.  The  ruins  of  the  fort  are 
themselves  picturesque,  with  that  beauty  of  ruins  that  is  so  rare  with  us  in  America — - 
the  nameless  charm  that,  even  for  the  least  sentimental,  always  surrounds  an  old,  decay- 
ing structure  that  has  played  its  part  in  the  world,  and  seems  resting  and  looking  on 
dreamily,  only  an  observer  now,  and  not  an  actor. 

Close    by  the    central    grounds    of  the    academy  there    are    other   relics    of  old    days, 

monuments  that  have  an  interest  besides  their  picturesque  aspect,  as  they  lie    among   the 

green  of  the  turf  and  trees.     Along  the  steep  shore  of  the  river,  that  rises    so    suddenly 

as  to  form  a  series  of  sharp  precipices  and  rough  terraces  between  them,  there  are  many 

of  these    memorials,  and    many    historic    nooks.     Here,  half-way    down    the    slope    of  the 

shore,  is   "  Kosciuszko's  Garden,"  where  the  brave  Pole  used  to  make  his    favorite   haunt, 

and  where  he  would  lie  and  read  in  his  leisure,  regardless,  according  to  the  story,  of  the 

73 


THE    HUDSON     AT    "  COZZENS'S. 


HIGHLANDS   AND    PALISADES    OF    THE    HUDSON  ii 

fact  that  shot  from  the  vessels  in  the  river  now  and  then  struck  the  rocks  not  far  away. 
Along  the  paths  that  lead  from  one  to  another  of  these  natural  terraces  are  smooth 
cliffs,  on  which  the  names  of  famous  victories  have  been  cut  in  large,  bold  letters ;  the 
vines  and  ferns  give  to  these  natural  frames  of  green,  and  the  plain  records  are  the 
most  perfect  that  could  have  been  devised — better  than  any  tablets  of  less  noble  sim- 
plicity. There  is  no  lack  of  memorial-stones  erected  by  men's  hands,  however ;  here  and 
there  a  column  or  an  obelisk  looks  out  from  the  foHage — a  monument  to  some  army 
hero,  who  once  went  out  into  earnest  battle  from  the  quiet  existence  and  petty  events 
of  "  the  corps." 

Down  by  the  most  beautiful  part  of  the  shore  runs  the  path — memorable  in  the 
lives  of  countless  fledgling  soldiers — that  has  been  named  by  profane  souls  "  Flirtation 
Walk " — a  designation  at  which  the  heart  of  any  man  over  two-and-twenty  must  sink,  in 
despair  of  his  race.  For  the  path  is  a  perfect  ideal  of  beauty ;  at  every  point  of  its 
course  there  are  glimpses  of  hills  and  river  that  it  makes  a  man's  whole  life  better  to 
have  seen ;  and  yet  it  must  exist  for  whole  generations  more  of  gray-clad  youngsters 
under  the  title  of  "  FHrtation  Walk  ! "  Not  that  we  quarrel  with  the  fact  of  the  flirta- 
tion— under  sun,  moon,  or  stars,  there  is  no  such  place  for  tender  passages  and  summer 
love-making — but  why  did  not  some  young  hero,  with  his  memory  full  of  these  things, 
christen  it  by  any  name,  though  ever  so  ultra-sentimental,  that  would  commemorate 
them  better  than  the  chosen  title  that  now  rules .? 

From  the  shady  nooks  of  the  West  Point  shores  one  may  look  out  upon  parts  of 
the  opposite  bank  that  are,  in  their  quieter  fashion,  also  beautiful.  Opposite  the  prom- 
ontory of  the  Point  lies  the  little  village  of  Cold  Spring — a  bright  group  of  houses 
by  the  water.  Above  and  below  it  the  shore  rises  into  high,  steep  banks,  and  on  one 
of  these  stands  the  little  church  of  St.  Mary's,  which  Mr.  Fenn  has  chosen  for  a  pict- 
ure that  might  almost  persuade  one  he  was  looking  upon  some  view  of  a  little  chapel 
crowning  the  rocks  by  an  old  river  of  Europe,  so  quaint  is  it,  and  so  foreign  in  its 
features  to  the  ordinary  aspect  of  our  American  scenes.  Near  by  it  the  railway  runs 
along  the  bank  and  through  dc  rough  tunnel  in  the  ragged  point ;  but  the  little  church 
looks  like  a  mediaeval  building,  as  far  removed  as-  possible  from  the  practical  progress 
of  to-day. 

But  we  must  not  long  digress  from  the  detail — even  though  it  be  so  meagre — of 
the  beauties  that  more  closely  surround  the  West  Point  plain.  We  should  be  unfaithful 
to  our  duties  as  guide  if  we  did  not  lead  the  looker-on  at  these  favorite  scenes  of  ours 
to  some  few  more  of  the  points  from  which  he  will  carry  away  pleasant  memories.  One 
of  these  is  the  landing-place  itself  at  which  he  finds  himself  upon  arrival  by  the  ordi- 
nary route  from  the  city ;  for  one  is  carried  by  the  train  to  Garrison's,  on  the  Hudson's 
eastern  side,  and  thence  in  a  little  steamer  across  the  river,  and  is  landed  at  the  foot  of 
the  cliffs  of  the  promontory.     Here  is  a  road  leading  to   the    plain    above,  and    built    by 


12 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


the  engineers  in  a  single  long  slope  from  the  water,  along  the  steep  face  of  the  shore, 
to  the  point  where  it  again  reaches  level  ground.  It  is  to  this  road  and  the  views  seen 
from  it  that  we  would,  in  guide-book  manner,  call  the  reader's  notice.  Whoever  is 
sound  in  wind  and  limb  should  walk  up  the  long,  regularly-graded  ascent,  and  now  and 
then  look  down  at  the  river.  It  lies  below  him,  seen  through  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
as  he  will  see  it  nowhere  else.  Such  a  sense  of  overhanging  the  water  is  hardly  felt 
even  on  the  Palisades  themselves.     The  rocks  above  and  below  the  road  are  grouped   in 


Anthony's  Nose,  from  the  Western  Shore. 


rough,  massive  forms ;  the  sense  of  height  is  far  greater  than  actual  measurement  would 
warrant ;  and  the  outlook,  wherever  one  turns,  is  striking,  and  such  as  will  be  gained 
from  perhaps  no  other  point  but  this,  midway  in  the  slope  along  the  cliff. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  promontory  from  this,  and  some  distance  beyond  the 
academy  grounds,  is  the  cemetery  of  the  post.  Overlooking  the  river  to  the  north  and 
east,  and  lying  in  a  little  level  plain  above  the  cliffs,  where  the  sunlight  falls  all  day 
long,  and  where  every  thing  in    scene    and    surrounding    seems    to  join    in    giving    quiet 


HIGHLANDS   AND    PALISADES    OF    THE    HUDSON. 


13 


and  peaceful  beauty  to  it,  it  is 
such  a  resting-place  as  any 
man  might  choose  after  a  sol- 
dier's stormy  life.  Here  Scott 
is  buried,  and  here  are  many 
heroes  of  fame  more  or  less 
widely  spread — all  honored  by 
the  younger  men  growing  up 
to  take  their  places,  with  an 
honor  partly  made  up  of  gen- 
erous ambition  to  go  and  do 
like  them,  partly  of  an  admi 
ration  for  bravery  in  the  ab- 
stract, and  partly  of  the  name- 
less and  indescribable  senti- 
ment of  veneration  that  hangs 
about  the  memory  of  "  a  grad- 
uate." To  us,  the  cemetery — 
overlooked  by  dark  old  Cro'- 
Nest ;  looking  down  on  the 
river  far  below ;  quiet  and 
peaceful  in  the  sunlight ;  silent, 
yet  never  gloomy,  under  the 
stars  ;  scarcely  touched,  it  would 
seem,  even  by  the  winds  of  the 
Highland  storms — -is  among 
the  West  Point  scenes  that 
seems  most  beautiful. 

We  must  not  leave  the 
Point  without  saying  some- 
thing of  the  associations, 
which,  besides  its  beauty,  make 
it  a  place  full  of  interest  to 
every  traveller  through  the 
Hudson's  scenery.  For  here 
are  the  scenes  of  not  a  few 
events  to  which  every  one's 
memory  turns  back  familiarly, 
and  the  whole  neighborhood  is 


Near  Anthony's  Nose  at  Night. 


14  PICTURESQUE  AMERICA. 

among  the  most  famous  regions  of  our  history.  During  the  War  of  the  Revolution, 
West  Point  was,  if  not  the  principal,  at  least  one  of  the  most  important  mihtary  posts 
in  the  country.  Singular  as  such  a  statement  must  appear  to  us  now,  it  was  looked 
upon — as  an  American  historian  has  phrased  it — as  the  key  to  the  passage  between  the 
New-England  and  the  Middle  States — the  colonies  of  Revolutionary  days.  It  com- 
manded the  entrance  to  the  Upper  Hudson ;  it  was  the  centre  of  the  scene  of  many 
principal  movements  of  the  war ;  it  was  invaluable  as  a  deposit  for  munitions,  and 
troops  were  mustered  within  its  fortifications,  to  be  sent  to  every  part  of  the  theatre  of 
action.  Upon  its  defences  was  concentrated  much  of  the  attention  and  effort  of  the 
Congress  and  the  leaders  of  the  army.  Here,  from  Gee's  Point  to  Constitution  Island 
(no  longer  surrounded  by  the  stream),  was  stretched  across  the  Hudson  the  huge 
chain,  to  which  reference  has  been  made  already.  "  It  was  laid,"  says  the  best  descrip- 
tion that  we  have  at  hand,  "  across  a  boom  of  heavy  logs,  that  floated  near  together. 
These  were  sixteen  feet  long,  and  pointed  at  each  end,  so  as  to  offer  little  resistance  to 
the  tidal  currents.  The  chain  was  fastened  to  these  logs  by  staples,  and  at  each  shore 
by  huge  blocks  of  wood  and  stone."  Several  of  the  great  links  of  the  chain  are  pre- 
served at  the  Point ;  and  the  work  of  the  stout  old  blacksmith  looks  as  though  it 
might  have  borne  the  wear  and  rust  of  centuries ;  but  by  the  vessels  of  an  enemy  its 
strength  was  never  tested.  Here,  too,  on  a  conspicuous  part  of  the  promontory,  Kos- 
ciuszko  constructed  Fort  Clinton,  in  1778.  Of  Fort  Putnam  we  have  already  spoken; 
and,  indeed,  the  whole  vicinity  of  the  post  was  provided  with  no  mean  works  for  forti- 
fication and  defence.  It  is  not  hard  to  see,  then,  apart  from  other  reasons,  why  Wash- 
ington and  his  generals  looked  upon  it  as,  perhaps,  their  chief  fortress.  The  fighting  col- 
onies had  no  other  military  stronghold  of  such  extent  and  permanent  character  as  this. 

All  these  features  of  the  place  contributed  to  increase  the  magnitude  of  the  crime 
which  will  always  be  associated  with  the  history  of  West  Point — the  treason  of  Bene- 
dict Arnold.  It  is  impossible  to  forget  it  as  we  look  at  the  scene  of  the  plan — impos- 
sible even  for  us,  who  have  come  to  seek  rather  the  beauty  of  the  present  than  the  stir- 
ring recollections  of  the  past.  Inevitably  we  picture  again  in  mind,  as  we  did  when 
school-boys,  the  September  morning  when  the  traitor  heard  of  the  miscarriage  of  his 
plans,  and  wonder  what  feeling  came  to  him  as  he  sat  at  the  table  of  Beverly 
House  (where  Colonel  Beverly  Robinson  had  made  his  home,  on  the  eastern  side  of 
the  river,  nearly  opposite  the  post),  and  the  note  was  brought  to  him  from  his  subordi- 
nate at  the  military  station  below,  that  said  "  Major  Andr^,  of  the  British  army,  is  a 
prisoner  in  my  custody."  The  scene  with  his  wife,  the  hurried  flight,  his  treacherous  sur- 
render of  his  boatmen — all  these  things  that  were  wont  to  stir  our  blood  when  we  read 
them  in  the  school-histories,  come  back  to  us  perforce  when  we  linger  at  the  Highland 
fortress.  It  must  have  been,  indeed,  a  sorry  time  for  more  men  than  Arnold;  and  one 
can  have  a  feeling  of  thorough  sympathy  for  the   disheartened   commander-in-chief,  when 


HIGHLANDS    AND    PALISADES    OF    THE    HUDSON. 


15 


he      turned     to 

Lafayette      and 

Knox    with  his 

saddened, 

"  Whom        can 

we  trust  now  ?  " 

But      we       are 

playing    false    to     our    guide's 

duty  in  thus  digressing  to  talk 

of  the  by-gone  days,  when    the 

Hudson     had     added     to     its 

beauties  the  interest  of  war. 

Because  we  have  lingered 
so  long  in    the    beautiful    neighborhood    of  West    Point    and    its    really  glorious    scenery, 
the    patient    reader    must    not   fancy  that   the   noblest  views    of  the    Highlands    approach 


Anthony's  Nose,  from  lona  Island. 


r6 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


their  end  when  the  picturesque  mih- 

tary  post  is    passed.      So    far    is    this 

from    being    the    fact,    that    we    fear   we    have 

given   to    what    is,  we   confess,  our   favorite   of 

all   the  places    on    the    river's  shore,  more  than 

its  share  of  time  and  space. 

For  we  have  not  yet  spoken  of  Cozzens's,  that  familiar  and 
great  resort  of  summer  pleasure-seekers,  perched  high  on  the 
brow   of    the   cliff    that    is    the    most    prominent    on    the   western 

shore  for  several  miles  below  the  Military  Academy.  Nothing  could  be  more  pictu- 
resque than  the  situation  of  the  great  building  of  the  hotel,  high  up  in  air,  looking 
down  upon  all  the  noblest  of  the  river -views.  It  is  several  hundred  feet  above  the 
water  in  reality ;  but  it  looks  twice  the  real  distance  from  the  low  shore  at  the  base 
of  the  cliff  to  the  foundations  of  the  house,  for  the  precipice  is  here  so  bold  and 
rugged  that  the  most  practised  eye  is  deceived  by  its  appearance  of  great  height. 
Along  this  steep  descent  runs  the  road,  cut  as  at  the  post-landing  above,  in  a  well- 
graded  slope  from  the  river  to  the  summit  of  the  cliffs.  On  the  shore  Mr.  Fenn  has 
found  a  point  of  view  where  one  may  deceive  himself  into  the  belief  that  he  looks  upon 
some  legend-haunted  ruin  near  the  Rhine  or  the  Neckar,  so  picturesquely  are  the  out- 
lines of  this  commonplace  old  structure  by  the  Cozzens's  Landing  shaped  and  scarred  by 
time  and  weather. 

But  we  must  hasten  on,  for  now,  a  little  distance  farther   down   the   river,  we   come 


HIGHLANDS    AND    PALISADES    OF    THE    HUDSON. 


17 


upon  another  of  the  most  glorious  mountain-groups  of  the  Highlands — the  most  southern 
of  all,  forming  the  lower  gate,  as  the  Storm-King  and  its  fellows  form  the  upper.  Chief 
among  this  new  group  is  the  bold  height  of  Anthony's  Nose,  descending  sharply  to  the 
water  of  the  river  at  one  of  the  most  perfect  bends  in  all  its  course.  So  boldly  does 
the  promontory  jut  out  into  the  stream  that  it  seems  actually  to  close  its  channel ;  and 
the  good  Hendrick  Hudson,  as  he  approached  it,  thought  for  a  time  that  his  progress 
was  finally  brought  to  a  close,  and  that  the  arm  of  the  sea,  up  which  he  imagined  that 
he  was  sailing,  had  ended  here  among  the  hills.  The  steep  sides  of  the  headland  are 
dark  with  rock  and  forest  and  thick  undergrowth ;  and  the  coloring  of  the  whole  is  so 
stem  and  sombre,  even  in  the  sunlight,  that  there  is  about  the  mountain  an  air  of 
majesty  that  makes  it  by  far  the  most  prominent  of  the  chain  in  which  it  stands. 

■  Why  this  famous  height  received  the  name  it  bears,  no  one  knows  ;  but  the  vera- 
cious Knickerbocker  claims  to  have  made  discovery  of  the  facts  that  led  to  the  choosing 
of  the  title.  "  And  now  I  am  going  to  tell,"  says  he,  "  a  fact  which  I  doubt  much  my 
readers  will  hesitate  to  believe ;   but,  if  they  do,  they  are  welcome  not  to  believe  a  word 


The    Hudson,    north  from    Peekskill. 


74 


1 8  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

in  this  whole  history,  for  nothing  which  it  contains  is  more  true.  It  must  be  known, 
then,  that  the  nose  of  Anthony  the  trumpeter  was  of  a  very  lusty  size,  strutting  boldly 
from  his  countenance,  like  a  mountain  of  Golconda,  being  sumptuously  bedecked  with 
rubies  and  other  precious  stones — the  true  regalia  of  a  king  of  good  fellows,  which  jolly 
Bacchus  grants  to  all  who  bouse  it  heartily  at  the  flagon.  Now,  thus  it  happened  that, 
bright  and  early  in  the  morning,  the  good  Anthony,  having  washed  his  burly  visage,  was 
leaning  over  the  quarter-railing  of  the  galley,  contemplating  it  in  the  glassy  wave  below. 
Just  at  this  moment  the  illustrious  Sun,  breaking  in  all  his  splendor  from  behind  a  high 
bluff  of  the  Highlands,  did  dart  one  of  his  most  potent  beams  full  upon  the  refulgent 
nose  of  the  sounder  of  brass,  the  reflection  of  which  shot  straightway  down  hissing  hot 
into  the  water,  and  killed  a  mighty  sturgeon  that  was  sporting  beside  the  vessel.  This 
huge  monster,  being  with  infinite  labor  hoisted  on  board,  furnished  a  luxurious  repast  to 
all  the  crew,  being  accounted  of  excellent  flavor,  excepting  about  the  wound,  where  it 
smacked  a  little  of  brimstone ;  and  this,  on  my  veracity,  was  the  first  time  that  ever 
sturgeon  was  eaten  in  these  parts  by  Christian  people.  When  the  astonishing  miracle 
became  known  to  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  that  he  tasted  of  the  unknown  fish,  he,  as  may 
well  be  supposed,  marvelled  exceedingly;  and,  as  a  monument  thereof,  he  gave  the  name 
of  Anthony's  Nose  to  a  stout  promontory  in  the  neighborhood,  and  it  has  continued  to 
be  called  Anthony's  Nose  ever  since  that  time." 

There  are  other  mountains  here  that  guard,  with  Anthony's  Nose,  this  southern 
entrance.  Chief  among  them  is  the  grand  Donderberg,  jutting  sharply  into  the  river 
from  the  shore  opposite  the  Nose,  and  a  mile  and  a  half  below  it  in  the  stream's  course. 
Around  this  Mountain  of  Thunder  the  summer  storms  collect ;  and  its  summit  is  best 
known  to  those  who  have  seen  it  with  the  frown  of  a  cloud  sweeping  over  it,  and  the 
sound  of  the  coming  tempest  already  heard  about  its  sides. 

We  are  in  the  very  land  of  Irving  now ;  the  whole  region  is  peopled  with  the 
creatures  of  his  fancy.  Who  does  not  remember  the  "  little  bulbous-buttomed  Dutch 
goblin,  in  trunk-hose  and  sugar-loaf  hat,  with  a  speaking-trumpet  in  his  hand,  which,  they 
say,  keeps  the  Donderberg.''  They  declare,"  Irving  says  further  of  the  river-captains  and 
their  legend,  "  that  they  have  heard  him,  in  stormy  weather,  in  the  midst  of  the  turmoil, 
giving  orders,  in  Low-Dutch,  for  the  piping  up  of  a  fresh  gust  of  wind,  or  the  rattling 
off  of  another  thunder-clap ;  that  sometimes  he  has  been  seen  surrounded  by  a  crew  of 
little  imps,  in  broad  breeches  and  short  doublets,  tumbling  head-over-heels  in  the  rack 
and  mist,  and  playing  a  thousand  gambols  in  the  air,  or  buzzing  like  a  swarm  of  flies 
about  Anthony's  Nose ;  and  that,  at  such  times,  the  hurry-scurry  of  the  storm  was 
always  greatest." 

Of  the  Sugar-Loaf,  Bear  Mountain,  and  the  other  picturesque  hills  that  form  the 
beautiful  southern  Highlands,  we  have  not  space  to  speak  at  length ;  nor  have  we 
looked  upon   our  guide's  office   as   imposing   upon   us   the   duty  of   pointing  out  to  view 


HIGHLANDS   AND    PALISADES    OF    THE    HUDSON. 


19 


each  several  feature  of  the  Highland  scenery.  Had  we  done  so,  we  should  be  open  to  a 
thousand  charges  of  neglect.  We  have  rather  floated  down  with  the  stream,  talking  with 
perhaps  some  garrulity  of  what  first  met  our  eyes ;  but  if  we  were  to  yield  to  tempta- 
tion, and  wander    away    upon    the    shore,    or    penetrate    ever    so    little    inland,  we    should 


A   Misty    Morning  on   the    Hudson. 

never  end  our  journey.  For  there  would  be  then  all  the  picturesque  creeks  that  tumble 
foaming  to  the  river,  and  all  their  long,  wild  valleys,  to  follow  up  ;  there  would  be  the 
bright  villages,  with  their  legends  and  their  scenes  of  our  old  history,  to  recall ;  and  there 
would  be  the  hundred  thousand  points  of  view  to  visit  and  to  enjoy,  each  one  more  than 
the  last.      But  we   cannot   do   this;   and   we    must    make    our    farewell    to    the    Highland 


The    Hudson,    at    Yonkers. 


group,  with  Mr.  Fenn's  sketches  of  the  great  promontory,  and  go  on  into  the  new  scenes 
of  the  river  below. 

As  Newburg  at  the  northern  entrance  of  the    Highlands,  so  lies  Peekskill    near   the 
southern.     Very  picturesquely  the  town  is  placed,  with    its   houses    lying    on    the    sloping 


20 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


lower  shore,  and  its 
terraced  road  on  the 
steep    hill  -  side    be- 
hind.   From  this  road  we  again 
look   out   on   the   long   reaches 
of  broad   and   open   river ;    and 
the  wilder  and  grander  aspects 
to   which   we    have   grown    ac- 
customed   disappear.      Yet   the 
quieter  scene  is  very  beautiful ; 
The  Palisades.  ^iV^^,    lookiug    southward    from 

the  high  terrace,  a  pleasant  country   meets  the  •  view,  where    along  the  river-banks  are  the 
little  country-places  that  make  homes  for  crowded-out  New-Yorkers. 


'■¥ 


^1 


I 


J 


HIGHLANDS   AND    PALISADES    OF    THE    HUDSON.  21 

And  now  follows  a  long  reach  of  river  of  which  our  title  strictly  takes  no  cog- 
nizance ;  it  is  neither  in  the  Highlands,  nor  is  the  greater  part  of  it  bordered  by  the 
most  picturesque  portion  of  the  Palisades ;  yet  how  can  we  pass  it  entirely  by  without 
a  word — even  we  who  are  seeking  that  which  is  by  nature  beautiful,  and  have  nothing, 
by  the  stern  limitations  of  our  duty,  to  do  with  story  or  reminiscence  or  manifold  attrac- 
tions of  association  ?  We  cannot  pass  by  it  without  at  least  a  word  or  two ;  for  here, 
in  the  part  of  the  river  to  which  we  are  coming,  are  scenes  that  every  one  knows  by 
heart.  We  do  not  mean  to  speak  of  Stony  Point,  where  gallant  Anthony  Wayne  led 
his  men  so  well  through  the  July  midnight  in  1779;  or  of  Treason  Hill,  where  Arnold's 
plans  were  matured,  and  where  Andr^  took  the  papers  that  betrayed  it ;  or  of  the  hun- 
dred other  historic  localities  that  lie  hereabout ;  for  we  will  not  weary  the  voyager  again 
with  long  rehearsal  of  history,  or  call  him  away  from  his  journey.  But,  when  we  speak 
of  scenes  that  every  one  knows  by  heart,  we  mean  those  that  have  been  touched  by 
Irving's  pen,  and  those  among  which  he  himself  lived  and  wrote. 

For  now  we  approach  the  Tappan  Zee,  and  that  whole  region  of  the  river  and  its 
valley  which  is  always  connected  with  the  romance  and  the  legendary  lore  that  he  created 
for  it.  And  below  is  his  own  home  of  Sunnyside,  standing  in  classic  ground  for  all 
Americans.  Who  can  pass,  a  little  above  Tarrytown,  the  shore  beyond  which  lies  Sleepy 
Hollow,  or  sail  past  the  banks  of  which  every  point  suggests  some  memory  of  the 
sunny-hearted  writer,  and  not  be  glad  at  the  thoughts  they  bring  into  his  mind  }  Every 
thing  that  Irving  has  touched  he  has  turned  into  something  better  than  gold. 

But,  while  we  have  looked  only  at  the  eastern  shore  in  this  part  of  the  Hudson's 
course — the  eastern  shore,  to  which  its  associations  irresistibly  draw  the  traveller's  first 
glances — the  Palisades  have  already  begun,  and  have  grown  into  an  unbroken,  massive 
wall  upon  the  western  bank.  In  strict  truth,  and  geographically,  their  great  escarpments 
begin  in  the  neighborhood  of  Haverstraw,  and  run  south  along  the  river-bank  for  thirty 
miles  or  more ;  but  the  noblest  part  of  their  wall  of  vertical  and  columned  rock  is  of 
much  less  extent.  '  It  is  that  portion  which  we  call  the  noblest  in  which  they  rise,  in 
rude  and  rugged  but  uninterrupted  line,  to  the  height  of  three  hundred  and  even  five 
hundred  feet,  attaining  their  greatest  magnitude  in  the  enormous  and  jutting  buttress  that 
thrusts  itself  into  the  stream  nearly  opposite  Sing  Sing. 

For  miles  on  either  side  of  this,  their  giant  ridge,  like  a  natural  fortress,  lies  between 
the  river  and  the  bright  and  fertile  region  on  its  west.  Here  and  there  the  wall  is  cut 
by  deep  and  narrow  ravines,  and  through  such  fissures  in  the  cliffs  are  gained  some  of 
the  most  perfect  views  of  river  and  landscape  that  have  greeted  us  in  all  our  course. 
It  is  through  such  rifts  in  the  rock  that  one  sees  the  stream  lying  so  far  below  that  it 
seems  almost  in  another  world,  and  looks  across  into  the  blue  distance  in  the  east  as  he 
might  look  out  from  a  great  and  magical  window  that  gave  a  glimpse  into  an  entirely 
different  life.      For  nothing  could  present  sharper  contrasts  than  do  the  two  regions  sep- 


22 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA, 


arated  by  this  natural  wall.  On  its  west  lies  the  quietest  farming  country, 
with  its  people  leading  simple,  uneventful,  pastoral  lives — people  to  whom  the 
^j|j^  busy  towns  and  the  noises  of  the  city  seem  as  far  away  as  if  they  ex- 
isted only  to  be  read  about  and  wondered  over.  But  on  the 
eastern  side,  in  the  places  along  the  banks  of  the  river,  in  every 
kind  of  dwelling,  from  great  country-seat  to  smallest  suburban 
cottage,  is  found  a  class  utterly  different.  These  are  they  the 
chief  part  of  whose  days  is  passed  "  in  town,"  who  have  come 
out,  or  been  driven  out,  to  the  beauty  of  the  country  for  rest 
and-  a  little  freshness  and  invigoration  in  their  homes,  at  least. 
All  over  the  Hudson's  banks,  from  Newburg  to  New  York, 
these  people  cluster  in  villages  and  little  cities,  trying  hard  to 
bring  into  the  whole  region  the  bustle  of  their  town-hfe,  but 
gaining  good,  in  spite  of  themselves,   from  their  surroundings. 

But  there  is  niore  to  be  gained    from 
the  summit  of  the  Palisades  than    an    out- 
look at  the  various  aspects  of  the  humani- 
ty about    their  base.      High    up    upon    the 
crest    of    the    great    escarpment    one    may 
stand    and    look    far  away  into  the  east,  or 
see    the    most    glorious    sunsets    that    ever 
changed    the    sky    to    gold    and    fire.      To 
the  north  lie  the  Highlands  we 
have    passed,    stretched    out    in 
noblest   panorama  for  his  view ; 
and  to  the  south  the  river  flows 
on  in  a  broader  stream,  until  on 
its  eastern  side  the  city  begins, 
and   the  stream  changes  its  as- 
pect,   and    passes    between    the 
crowded   shores    that    send    out 
across  it  the   noisy  thunder   of 
their   busy   life ;    and    Palisades, 
and  rocky  hills,  and  long  reaches 
of  still  stream,  and  green,  pleas- 
ant banks,  make  a  sudden  end, 
as  the  Hudson    sweeps   grandly 
and  quietly  down  to  the  sea. 

At   the    Foot  of  the    Palisades. 


PHILADELPHIA    AND    ITS    SUBURBS. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    GRANVILLE    PERKINS. 


Chestnut-Street    Bridge,    on    the    Schuylkill. 


THE  Quaker  City!  Little  did  William  Penn  think,  as  he  stepped  out  of  his  boat 
upon  the  grassy  margin  of  Dock  Creek,  that  memorable  morning  of  1682,  and 
walked,  with  mien  sedate  and  befitting,  along  the  path  that  led  to  the  pleasant  but  soli- 
tary hostelry  of  the  Blue  Anchor,  his  mind  in  travail  with  the  scheme  of  a  Philadel- 
phia about  to  be  founded  among  the  "  coves  and  springs  and  lofty  lands "  of  Coaquan- 
noc — little,  beyond  peradventure,  did  he  think  of  the  vast  possibilities  of  growth  and 
change  that  might  transform  and  in  one  sense  alienate,  in  a  future  more  or  less  remote, 
this  child  of  his  ambition  and  his  hope !  Sagacious  and  far-seeing  as  he  undoubtedly 
was,  it  surely  never  occurred  to  him,  sitting — as  in  those  days  even  "  friends "  did  not 
disdain  to  sit — in  the  sanded  parlor  of  the  Blue  Anchor,  and  looking,  perchance,  in  a 
prophetic  mood  of  mind,  along  the  winding  shores  of  the  creek,  and  on  what  y^ere 
then  the  uplands  upon  the  hither  bank  of  the  great  river  in  which  the  creek  was 
lost — surely    it    could    not    have    happened    that    his    sober    fancy    pictured    so    great    and 


Chestnut  Street,   looking  up  from  Independence  Hall.  Chestnut  Street,   looking  down  from   Ninth   Street. 

SCENES     IN     PHILADELPHIA. 


PHILADELPHIA    AND    ITS    SUBURBS.  25 

so  wonderful  a  metamorphosis  as  that  which  has  at  this  day  transfigured  the  entire 
landscape  into  the  Hkeness  of  the  actual  Philadelphia  !  The  scope  of  his  forecast  may 
be  gauged  by  the  limit  of  his  design.  He  planned  a  "  town "  of  thirty  streets,  crossing 
each  other  at  right  angles,  nine  east  and  west,  and  one-and-twenty  north  and  southward 
trending— the  former  serving  only  as  highways  from  shore  to  shore  of  the  two  streams 
that  held  the  "  lofty  lands "  in  their  embrace,  with  no  thought,  it  would  seem,  of  ven- 
turing across  these  watery  barriers,  but  the  latter  capable  of  indefinite  extension,  sub- 
ject, of  course,  to  the  contingent  rights  and  privileges  of  neighboring  "  settlements." 
Hampered  by  the  memories  and  traditions  of  the  Old-World  towns  and  cities,  he  in- 
flicted upon  the  future  metropolis  of  the  Keystone  State  the  same  misery  that  has 
stayed  or  stunted  the  complete  and  comely  development  of  nearly  all  the  older  towns 
and  cities  on  this  continent — the  misery  of  narrow  thoroughfares  and  scanty  spaces,  blind 
alleys,  dark  courts,  and  a  general  inadequacy  of  breathing-room  and  free  circulation,  to 
say  nothing — though  a  great  deal  should  be  said — of  the  lost  opportunities  for  architectu- 
ral adornment,  and  the  refinement  of  the  popular  mind  by  objects  of  beauty  and  grand- 
eur placed  constantly  before  them  in  their  goings  up  and  down  the  high-  and  by-ways 
of  daily  toil  and  traffic.  Mr.  Penn  perhaps  thought  to  remedy  this  to  some  extent  by 
laying  his  city  out  with  a  fair  and,  to  a  mathematical  mind,  satisfying  rectangularity ; 
and,  viewed  from  a  thoroughly  Gradgrindian  stand-point,  a  city  whose  streets  are  inter- 
sected by  each  other  at  invariable  right  angles,  and  consequently  traverse  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land  in  undeviating  straight  lines,  is  possibly  the  most  comfortable 
and  convenient  of  cities.  But,  looking  from  a  picturesque  point  of  view,  such  an  ar- 
rangement is  very  unfortunate,  and  a  wholesale  sacrifice  of  beauty  to  utility.  Though 
the  sect  to  which  the  eminent  founder  of  Philadelphia  belonged  was  not  popularly  be- 
lieved to  have  much  sympathy  with  the  allurements  of  the  beautiful,  either  in  Nature 
or  art,  yet  it  will  not  be  denied  that  there  were,  and  are,  many  picturesque  features  in 
the  landscape  of  the  spot  chosen  by  him  for  the  site  of  his  city  of  fraternal  love.  Here 
was  a  large  and  pleasantly-undulating  plain,  rising  gently,  north  and  westward,  to  a  coun- 
try of  heavily-timbered  hills,  and  rich  uplands  pregnant  with  the  promise  of  future 
harvests,  margined  for  many  a  mile  by  the  broad,  swift,  deep-flowing  Delaware,  and  the 
shallower,  slower,  but  more  beautiful  and  purer,  Schuylkill — twin  channels  for  an  appar- 
ently illimitable  commerce,  and  an  equally  exhaustless  supply  of  the  vital  element  that 
is  necessary  to  the  existence  of  this  commerce  and  of  the  life  that  makes  it  possible — a 
plain,  too,  with  further  accidents  of  beauty  along  its  borders  in  the  shape  of  rocky  dell 
and  shadowy  ravine,  hints  of  mountain  and  gorge,  and  all  the  fascinating  marvels  of 
torrent,  cascade,  and  rapid,  reproduced  in  miniature,  so  to  speak,  upon  the  romantic 
banks  and  in  the  sylvan  stream  of  the  weird  and  winding  Wissahickon.  "  It  seemed," 
indeed,  as    Penn    himself  said,  the  very  place    "  appointed    for   a    town ; "    and    surely  the 

phenomena  of  its  growth  have  gone  far  to  prove  the  wisdom  of  his  selection. 

75 


26 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Tower   and    Steeple,    Independence    Hall. 


The  Philadelphia  of  Wil- 
liam Penn  was  incorporated  in 
1701  ;  and  for  a  number  of 
years  thereafter  the  tendency 
of  its  growth  was  in  a  lateral 
direction,  upon  or  near  the 
shore  of  the  Delaware,  north 
and  southward  rather  than 
westward  toward  the  Schuyl- 
kill. This  disposition  to  chng 
to  the  margin  of  the  waters 
over  which  the  adventurer  has 
sailed  from  the  Old  to  the 
New  Land  is  natural,  and  no- 
ticeable in  nearly  every  in- 
stance of  the  early  settlements 
in  this  country.  It  was  spe- 
cially so  in  Philadelphia,  where 
both  the  business  and  social 
life  of  the  city  long  clustered 
in  the  streets  bordering  or 
abutting  upon  the  Delaware, 
leaving  most  of  the  upper  or 
western  part  of  the  city-plan 
either  in  the  condition  known 
to  real-estate  dealers  as  "  unim- 
proved," or  occupied  as  small 
farms  and  suburban  villas. 
Even  as  late  as  the  first  quar- 
ter of  the  present  century, 
many  of  the  finest  private  resi- 
dences in  the  city  were  on 
Front  Street,  which  was  the 
first  street  opened  by  Penn, 
and  ran  nearly  due  north  and 
south  along  the  course  of  the 
river.  Some  of  these  remain 
to  this  day  the  habitations  of 
wealthy  citizens,  though  jostled 


PHILADELPHIA    AND    ITS    SUBURBS.  27 

by  the  encroachments  of  toil  and  traffic,  and  their  river-side  pleasures  and  privileges 
usurped  by  unsightly  and  unsavory  wharves,  crowded  avenues,  and  lofty  warehouses. 

There  are,  of  course,  but  few  historical  monuments  left  standing  of  the  earlier  days 
of  Philadelphia.  The  most  venerable,  perhaps,  and  one  of  the  most  interesting,  is  Christ 
Church,  in  Second  Street,  above  Market,  which  dates,  in  its  present  construction,  as  far 
back  as  1727,  two  years  before  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  the  State-House,  since 
memorable  as  Independence  Hall.  Hemmed  in,  as  this  stately  pile  now  is  on  all  sides, 
by  the  obtrusive  and  inharmonious  aggregations  of  brick  and  mortar  devoted  to  the 
prosaic  purposes  of  trade,  it  may  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  for  the  artist  to  find  a 
point  of  view  from  which  its  picturesque  features  can  be  brought  into  full  relief;  but 
from  its  belfry  the  visitor  at  least  beholds  a  panorama  of  land  and  water  which  will  well 
repay  the  fatigue  of  ascent.  The  broad  expanse  of  the  Delaware,  with  all  its  varied 
aspects  of  commercial  highway  and  grove-fringed,  villa-bordered  stream,  flows  between 
its  level  banks  for  many  a  mile  beneath  him.  Eastward  he  looks  far  across  the  river  to 
the  sandy  reaches  of  New  Jersey,  with  Camden  and  Gloucester  in  the  foreground,  and 
an  indefinite  vista  of  sombre  pine-groves  beyond. 

To  the  south  his  roving  eye  will  first  be  caught  by  the  old  Navy- Yard,  with  its 
ark-like  ship-houses,  its  tiers  of  masts  and  docks,  and  the  green  oases  of  its  officers' 
quarters ;  while  still  farther  away,  where  the  Schuylkill  and  Delaware  meet  on  their  way 
to  the  sea,  low  and  dark  on  the  horizon  lies  League  Island — the  Navy-Yard  of  the 
future. 

If,  now,  he  turn  his  back  on  the  river,  the  entire  city  and  its  far-reaching  suburbs 
are  spread  as  a  map  before  him  from  the  mouth  of  the  Schuylkill,  on  the  south,  to  the 
extremest  limit  of  Germantown,  on  the  north,  and  westward,  far  beyond  the  semi-rural 
avenues  of  West  Philadelphia,  Mantua,  and  Hestonville,  all  of  which  are  comprised  in 
the  city  of  to-day.  A  similar  panoramic  view  will  open  before  him  who  may  gaze  from 
the  belfry-gallery  of  Independence  Hall;  and  a  third,  and  even  more  picturesque  overlook, 
is  obtained  from  the  summit  of  Girard  College,  which  is  itself  one  of  the  most  mag- 
nificent monuments  of  individual  benevolence  in  this  country.  The  buildings  devoted 
to  this  noble  charity  stand  upon  high  ground,  in  the  midst  of  a  park-like  plot  of  forty- 
five  acres,  stretching  along  what  was  once  called  the  Ridge  Road,  but  now  elevated 
to  the  more  sounding  title  of  Ridge  Avenue,  in  the  northwestern  part  of  the  city. 
The  principal  and  central  structure,  containing  the  college  proper  (the  other  buildings 
being  chiefly  dormitories  and  offices),  is  a  massive  Corinthian  temple,  of  white  marble,  and 
is  justly  regarded  as  the  best  reproduction  of  pure  Greek  architecture  in  this  country- 
The  purpose  and  history  of  this  institution  are  too  well  and  widely  known  to  need 
further  recapitulation. 

Most  of  the  streets  of  Philadelphia  are,  unhappily,  narrow,  and  their  rectangularity 
and    straightness    offend    the    artistic    eye    as    well    as  mar   the    architectural    effect    of  the 


FOUNTAINS     IN     PHILADELPHIA. 


PHILADELPHIA    AND    ITS    SUBURBS.  29 

more  imposing  structures  erected  upon  them.  There  are,  however,  on  almost  all  her 
highways  noble  and  graceful  edifices  constructed  by  public  or  private  munificence  and 
taste,  massive  temples  of  charity,  of  religion,  of  industry,  and  of  art,  which  go  far  to 
redeem  the  stiffness  and  monotony  of  the  general  plan  of  the  city.  Something  about 
the  more  notable  buildings,  public  and  private,  may  not  be  wholly  inappropriate  even  in 
a  picturesque  article,  the  less  so  as  some  of  them  are  intimately  connected  with  the  his- 
tory and  traditions  (which  are  always  picturesque)  of  the  place.  So,  having  left  the  "  dim, 
religious  light"  that  marks  the  sacred  precincts  of  Christ  Church,  let  us  go  on  to  Chest- 
nut Street,  and  pause  at  the  State-House,  with  a  reverent  recognition  of  its  claims, 
to  notice  above  those  of  more  recent  and  more  ornate  constructions. 

The  edifice  is  but  two  stories  in  height,  and  built  of  simple  brick,  but  its  associa- 
tions have  given  it  an  interest  scarcely  less  world-wide  and  thrilling  than  that  attaching 
to  any  structure,  however  magnificent  in  size  or  symmetry,  throughout  Christendom.  It 
is  surmounted  by  a  steeple,  in  which  was  hung  the  great  and  glorious  bell,  with  its  pro- 
phetic inscription,  verified  little  more  than  a  century  after  its  first  echoes  woke  the  good 
burghers  of  the  royal  province  of  Pennsylvania,  when  the  clangorous  psean  was  pro- 
claimed of — "  Liberty  throughout  the  land,  unto  all  the  inhabitants  thereof."  Beneath 
its  roof  was  pronounced  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  in  the  same  chamber,  a 
few  years  afterward,  the  system  of  government  which  culminated  in  the  establishment  of 
the  Great  Republic  was  discussed  and  adopted. 

Market  Street  is  the  great  central  highway  of  traffic,  foreign  and  domestic,  and  is 
chiefly  remarkable  for  its  handsome  warehouses  and  mercantile  depots,  its  width,  and  its 
turmoil.  The  traveller  in  search  of  the  picturesque  will  not  care  to  linger  amid  its  pro- 
saic bustle.  Neither  will  he  find  much  to  arrest  his  eye  on  Arch  Street,  save  a  graceful 
spire  here  and  there ;  but  he  will  be  struck  by  the  repose  of  the  street  as  contrasted 
with  the  rattle  and  hurry  of  adjacent  highways,  and  with  the  air  of  placid  respectability 
that  distinguishes  the  staid  denizens  of  that  quiet  avenue.  It  was,  and  to  some  extent 
still  is,  a  favorite  street  for  "  Friends' "  residences,  and  partakes,  both  in  its  architecture 
and  its  human  circulation,  of  the  peculiar  plainness  and  primness  of  the  primitive  Quakers. 

The  handsomer  private  residences  are  chiefly  in  the  western  and  northwestern  parts 
of  the  city.  West  Philadelphia,  across  the  Schuylkill,  is  full  of  elegant  villas  and  taste- 
ful cottages.  The  western  part  of  Walnut,  Chestnut,  Arch,  Spruce,  and  Pine  Streets, 
is  wholly  occupied  by  what  we  sometimes  hear  called  palatial'  mansions ;  and  the  spacious 
and  noble  boulevard  of  Broad  Street  runs  for  miles  between  the  dwellings  of  the  rich, 
built  of  every  variety  of  stone  and  in  every  conceivable  (or  inconceivable)  style  of 
architecture,  and,  in  many  instances,  further  adorned  by  lawns  and  gardens  of  most  elab- 
orate finish  and  fruitfulness. 

The  numerous  spots  of  shade  and  greenery  known  as  "  squares "  are  pleasant  and 
wholesome  features  of  this  city.     They  were  part  of  the  original  plan  of   Penn,  and  hav- 


30 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


ing  had  the  advantage  of  time,  are  full  of  noble  and  venerable  trees,  some  of  which 
were  denizens  of  the  virgin  forest  that  gloomed  the  soil  on  which  they  still  stand.  In 
the  centre  of  Franklin  Square — the  largest  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  those 
within  the  city — there  is  a  fine  fountain,  with  a  number  of  jets  falling  into  a  large  basin, 
upon  whose  clear  surface  two  or  more  swans  were  wont  to    glide,  much    to    the    delight 


Navy-Yard. 


of  the  children ;  but  these  graceful  water-fowl  have  vanished,  having,  perhaps,  been 
removed  to  the  broader  waters  of  Fairmount  Park.  The  thirsty  wayfarer,  by-the-by, 
whether  man  or  beast,  will  find  no  lack  of  fountains  whereat  to  quench  his  thirst  in 
Philadelphia.  There  are  scores  of  these  grateful  drinking-places  on  the  high-  and  by-ways 
of  the  city  and  suburbs,  some  of  them,  as  may  be  seen  by  the  accompanying  illustra- 
tion, not  without  a  picturesque  or  artistic  beauty  and  fitness  in   their  design,  which    does 


PHILADELPHIA    AND    ITS    SUBURBS.  31 

not  render  the  water  less  refreshing  or  the  pilgrim  less  appreciative.  These  street  foun- 
tains are  due  to  the  humane  and  enlightened  labors  and  taste  of  a  few  gentlemen, 
who,  in  1869,  formed  themselves  into  a  Fountain  Society  for  this  beneficent  object,  and, 
either  through  their  personal  and  pecuniary  efforts  and  assistance,  or  by  the  influence  of 
their  example  upon  others,  these  well-springs  of  wholesome  refreshment  have  been  offered 
to  the  parched  throats  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  their  fellow-creatures. 

In  several  instances  an  intelligent  advantage  has  been  taken — notably  in  the  Park 
and  upon  some  of  the  pretty  roads  about  the  skirts  of  the  city — of  the  natural  acci- 
dents of  scenery  in  the  selection  of  the  spot  and  the  character  of  the  fountain,  and  the 
result  is  picturesque,  and  in  harmony  with  the  landscape  and  associations.  It  were  to  be 
wished  that  an  equally  enlightened  taste  had  been  displayed  in  every  instance ;  but  as 
some  of  these — shall  we  say  works  of  art } — have  been  the  free  gift  of  individual  citi- 
zens (and,  therefore,  not  to  be  viewed  with  the  "critic's  eye"),  there  is  here  and  there  an 
unfortunate  specimen  of  that  peculiar  taste  supposed  to  belong  to  the  great  "  Veneering " 
and  "  Podsnap "  families.  Under  the  circumstances,  however,  it  would  be  uncharitable  to 
seem  severely  critical,  and  these  blots  upon  the  artistic  perspicacity  of  the  Fountain  So- 
ciety shall  not,  therefore,  be  more  particularly  alluded  to  herein. 

Art  and  science  have  received  careful  attention  in  Philadelphia.  For  many  years 
the  quiet  and  modest  rooms  of  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  in  Chestnut  Street,  were 
the  resort  of  art-loving  citizens  and  curious  strangers.  Here  several  of  the  huge  canvases 
of  Benjamin  West  and  Rembrandt  Peale  were  enshrined  in  state,  and  received  the  hom- 
age of  those  who  deemed  them  superlative  works  of  art,  the  finest  of  which  the  country 
could  boast.  Here  the  annual  exhibitions  of  the  works  of  Philadelphia's  artists  are  held, 
and  in  the  basement  beneath  are  casts  of  the  famous  statues  of  antiquity,  arranged  in 
sepulchral  rows.  All  of  these  treasures,  it  is  believed,  will  in  time  be  transferred  to  the 
new  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  which  will  be  erected  on  an  appropriate  site  in  another 
portion  of  the  city. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  buildings  in  Philadelphia  is  the  new  Masonic  Temple, 
just  erected  on  the  corner  of  Broad  and  Filbert  Streets.  It  is  constructed  of  granite, 
dressed  at  the  quarry  and  brought  to  the  site  all  ready  for  immediate  use.  As  a  piece 
of  architecture  it  is  a  curious  imitation  of  the  round  and  pointed  styles  of  the  middle 
ages — the  outhnes,  the  tower,  and  certain  other  features,  suggesting  the  Gothic,  while  the 
windows,  the  fagade,  and  the  minuter  details,  are  thoroughly  Saxon  in  character.  Thus, 
the  deeply-recessed  porch,  with  its  dog-tooth  ornaments  and  round  arches,  might  be 
copied  from  one  of  the  old  Saxon-built  abbeys  of  England ;  while  the  tower,  adorned  in 
a  more  elaborate  style,  only  needs  a  spire  to  be  Gothic  in  general  effect  if  not  in  de- 
tail. Inside  the  Temple  there  are  various  halls,  built  in  the  Corinthian,  Doric,  and 
.  other  styles,  so  as  to  be  in  consonance  with  various  phases  of  masonic  practices. 

If  the    Delaware    River  is  the    source   of  commercial   prosperity  to    Philadelphia,  the 


32 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


<A 


Schuylkill  offers  to  its  citi- 
zens their  most  delightful 
out-of-door  pleasures.  The 
Delaware,  broad,  swift,  and 
majestic,  is  of  utilitarian  ben- 
efit. The  Schuylkill,  narrow, 
winding,  and  picturesque,  grat- 
ifies the  sense  of  beauty.  It 
is  at  Fairmount  that  the 
charm  of  th'e  Schuylkill  be- 
gins. Below  this  point  there 
is  not  much  in  the  stream 
calculated  to  interest  the  vis- 
itor, though  the  graceful  iron 
arches  of  the  Chestnut-Street 
Bridge  will  attract  attention, 
as  being  a  work  in  which 
engineering  skill  has  effect- 
ually availed  itself  of  the 
curved  lines  in  which  it  is 
claimed  that  beauty  dwells. 
Up  to  this  bridge  the  largest 
vessels  may  approach,  their 
tapering  masts  and  graceful 
yards  presenting  a  picture 
which,  in  a  bright,  sunny 
day,  might  have  won  the  ad- 
miration and  employed  the 
pencil  of  Turner.  The  scene 
at  this  point  is  usually  a 
busy  one.  Noisy  steam-tugs, 
light  sail-boats,  scows,  canal- 
boats,  and  other  kinds  of 
craft,  crowd  the  stream,  and 
impart  that  hfe  and  vivacity 
peculiar  to  the  water-front 
of  a  flourishing  commercial 
city.  At  night,  when  the 
bridge  is  lighted  by  rows  of 


76 


34 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


be 

ra 


gas -lamps,  and  the  masts 
and  cordage  loom  up  in  the 
dim  moonlight,  the  scene 
assumes  a  picturesque  ele- 
ment v/hich  it  does  not 
possess  by  daylight.  Below 
the  bridge,  on  either  shore, 
may  be  seen  the  outlines 
of  huge  derricks,  used  in 
loading  coal-barges.  Beyond 
can  be  discerned  various 
spires  and  towers,  and  the 
cross  -  surmounted  dome  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  Cathe- 
dral on  Logan  Square.  An- 
other bridge — known  as  the 
South  -  Street  Bridge  —  is 
building  in  this  vicinity, 
and  will  afford  another 
much-needed  means  of  com- 
munication between  these 
populous  and  busy  shores. 

Fairmount  Water-Works 
have  been  for  many  years 
one  of  the  recognized 
"  sights  "  of  Philadelphia  ; 
but  the  great  improvements 
recently  made  in  their  vicin- 
ity have  transformed  this 
resort  into  one  of  the  most 
charming  pleasure  -  gardens 
in  the  world.  Twenty  years 
ago  "  Fairmount "  meant 
only  the  buildings  in  which 
the  machinery  used  in  sup- 
plying Philadelphia  with 
pure  water  was  enclosed, 
and  the  little  pleasure-ground 
and  reservoir   lying    near    it. 


36  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

Now,  the    vast   expanse    of   Fairmount    Park  is    included    in    the    generic  term,  and  days 
might  be  pleasantly  spent  in  investigating  the  attractions  of  this  charming  spot. 

As  early  as  1800  the  necessity  of  providing  for  Philadelphia  a  supply  of  water  greater 
than  that  offered  by  the  wells  and  cisterns  was  recognized;  but  it  was  not  until  1818 
that  the  scheme  of  elevating  and  turning  into  it  the  river  Schuylkill,  by  means  of  an 
immense  dam,  was  determined  upon.  The  principal  features  of  this  plan  are  the  con- 
struction of  a  dam,  over  fourteen  hundred  feet  long,  which  backs  the  water  up  the  river 
about  six  miles,  creating  a  power  sufficient  to  raise  into  the  reservoir  ten  million  gallons 
a  day;  the  immense  forcing-pumps,  placed  in  a  horizontal  position,  and  worked  by  cranks 
on  the  water-wheels ;  and  the  vast  net-work  of  mains  and  pipes  which  convey  the  water 
to  all  parts  of  the  city.  The  buildings  containing  this  ponderous  machinery  are  open  to 
the  public,  and  the  majestic,  regular  motion  of  the  massive  forcing-wheels  offers  a  con- 
stant source  of  attraction  to  the  curious  visitor.  The  peculiar  and  by  no  means  disagree- 
able odor  produced  by  fresh  water  when  in  broken  motion  pervades  these  buildings,  and 
can  be  detected  at  some  distance  as  you  approach  them. 

The  grounds  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  Water-Works,  though  limited  in  size, 
are  pleasantly  laid  out ;  and  wooded  paths  wind  up  the  Reservoir  hill,  summer-houses  and 
rustic  seats  being  placed  on  the  various  coignes  of  'vantage.  Projecting  from  the  Reservoir, 
there  is  a  massive  stone  belvedere,  from  which  may  be  obtained  an  extensive  view  of  the 
Schuylkill  and  its  picturesque  shores  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  roofs  and  spires  of  the 
great  city  on  the  other.  The  view  of  the  Water-Works  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Schuylkill  is  quite  unique,  a  pleasant  architectural  effect  being  produced  by  two  little 
Grecian  temples  which  overhang  the  water,  and  by  the  symmetrical  colonnade  of  the 
larger  of  the  half-dozen  buildings  which  appertain  to  the  Water-Works. 

Embowered  in  the  trees  near  these  buildings  is  the  monument  erected  to  the  mem- 
ory of  Frederick  Graeff,  the  designer  and  first  engineer  of  the  works.  It  is  but  a  few 
minutes'  walk  from  this  spot  to  the  large  bronze  statue  of  Lincoln,  erected  in  1871  — 
probably  the  most  elaborate  monument  yet  erected  to  the  memory  of  the  martyr 
President. 

Fairmount  Park,  in  its  entire  extent,  comprises  some  four  thousand  acres,  is  three 
times  larger  than  the  famous  Central  Park  of  New  York,  and  is  by  far  the  most  ex- 
tensive pleasure-ground  in  this  country.  It  lies  on  both  sides  of  the  Schuylkill,  and 
communication  between  its  different  sections  is  maintained  by  the  bridges  at  Girard 
Avenue  and  Schuylkill  Falls.  There  is  also,  below  Fairmount,  a  wire  bridge,  which, 
when  it  was  new,  was  thought  to  be  a  remarkable  triumph  of  engineering  skill,  and 
attracted  the  attention  of  all  visitors  to  the  Quaker  City.  It  is  to-day  as  useful  and  as 
sightly  as  ever,  but  its  celebrity  has  been  long  since  eclipsed.  Fairmount  Park  was 
gradually  formed  through  the  purchase  by  the  municipal  authorities  of  several  of  the 
elegant,  well-cultivated  estates  which  lay  on  either  side  of  the    Schuylkill    in    the  vicinity 


3S 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


of  the  city.  The  property  includes  Belmont,  once  the  country-home  of  Judge  Peters,  a 
noted  jurist  in  the  early  part  of  the  century,  and  a  personal  friend  of  General  Washing- 
ton ;  the  Landsdowne  estate,  belonging  to  a  Marquis  of  Landsdowne,  who  married  Miss 
Bingham,  an  American  lady ;  and  the  Sedgely  estate.  These  lands  are  all  on  the  west 
side  of  the   river.      On  the  east  side  the  city  has  acquired  Lemon   Hill,  Eaglesfield,  and 


Rockland  Landing,   on  the  Schuylkill. 


all  the  estates,  on  that  side  of  the  stream,  up  to  the  Wissahickon  River.  Not  only  do 
these  acquisitions  offer  "  ample  room  and  verge  enough "  for  one  of  the  most  magnificent 
parks  in  the  world,  but  the  admirable  natural  advantages — gentle  declivities,  and  a  pictu- 
resque river  among  them — were  enhanced  by  the  fact  that  the  private  country-seats,  of 
which  this  property  is  mostly  composed,  were  all  richly  improved.  The  ancestral  trees  were 
in  excellent  preservation  and  in  the  fullest  splendor  of  their  foliage.     The  roads  were  all 


PHILADELPHIA    AND    ITS    SUBURBS. 


39 


laid  out,  anti  the  grounds  showed  that  for  years  they  had  received  the  careful  attention 
of  skilled  landscape-gardeners.  In  fact,  the  Park  authorities  had  only  to  combine  into 
one  a  number  of  pleasure-grounds  already  constructed,  and  to  invite  the  citizens  of 
Philadelphia  to  the  immediate  enjoyment  of  one  of  the  loveliest  out-door  resorts  in  the 
country. 


The  Schuylkill — View   from    Landsdovvne. 


Of  course,  the  points  of  view,  the  quiet  retreats,  and  the  charming  nooks  in  Fair- 
mount  Park  are  almost  innumerable.  The  windings  of  the  river  offer  a  constant  variety 
of  sylvan  scenery.  At  Rockland  Landing,  for  instance,  there  is  an  extensive  view  in 
both  directions  until  the  bend  of  the  stream  cuts  it  off,  while  directly  behind  the  spec- 
tator towers  a  rocky,  perpendicular  cliff,  on  the  face  of  which  the  various  strata  of  rock 
are  exposed  to   view   in   a  manner  which  would  delight  equally  a  scientific  geologist   or 


40 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


the  mere  casual  lover  of  the  picturesque.  Above  Belmont  the  stream  assumes  a  wilder 
character.  The  shores  slope  gradually  down  to  the  water's  edge ;  and  the  overhanging 
trees  curve  gently  forward  over  the  road-way,  as  if,  like  the  fond  Narcissus,  they  were 
enamoured  of  their  own  reflection  in  the  fair  bosom  of  the  limpid  stream.  From  the 
heights  of  Landsdowne  there  is  a  wider  scope  of  vision.  Seated  on  the  rustic  benches, 
overshadowed  by  stately  trees  of  almost  a  primeval  growth,  the  lounger  may  enjoy  one 
of  the  most  delightful  bits  of  river-scenery  of  the  milder  order  which  our  country  af- 
fords. Perhaps  among  the  noblest  views  which  are  afforded  by  the  rich  variety  of  the 
Fairmount  country  is  one  to  be  gained  from  the  West  Park.  In  this  view  the  river  is 
not  visible.  The  eye,  wandering  over  an  expanse  of  billowy  foliage,  descries  in  the  dis- 
tance the  roofs  and  spires  of  the  fair  city,  and  the  smoke  of  industry  arising  from  a 
hundred  tall  chimneys.  Near  the  centre  of  this  scene  arises  a  graceful  and  varied  archi- 
tectural grouping,  formed  by  the  tower  of  the  Masonic  Temple,  the  sharp  spire  of  the 
adjacent  church,  and  the  swelling  dome  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Cathedral.  These  build- 
ings are  not  really  near  together ;  but,  by  the  effect  of  parallax,  they  seem  to  form  one 
group,  and  in  their  proud  majesty  dominate  the  entire  city. 

The  Delaware  and  the   Schuylkill  !     "  The  wedded  rivers,"  Whittier  calls  them  in  his 
recent    lovely    pastoral,    "  The    Pennsylvania    Pilgrim."       Perhaps    the    sympathetic    visitor, 


?-^^J^^ 


[^  %/i4jf""'' 


Schuylkill,   above   Belmont. 


PHILADELPHIA    AND    ITS    SUBURBS. 


41 


Old    Bridge    on    the    Wissahickon. 


wandering  in  Fairmount  Park  at  that  sweet  hour  when  day  is  melting  into  night,  may 
keenly  realize  the  Quaker  poet's  description  of  the  city  and  its  vicinage  in  the  colonial 
days,  nearly  a  century  before  the  colonists  were  troubled  with  dreams  of  independence : 

"...  One  long  bar 
Of  purple  cloud,  on  which  the  evening  star 
Shone  like  a  jewel  on  a  scimitar, 

"Held  the  sky's  golden  gate-way.     Through  the  deep 
Hush  of  the  woods  a  murmur  seemed  to  creep, 
The  Schuylkill  whispering  in  a  voice  of  sleep. 

/  "  All  else  was  still.     The  oxen  from  their  ploughs 

Rested  at  last,  and  from  their  long  day's  browse 
Came  the  dun  files  of  Krisheim's  home-bound  cows. 

"  And  the  young  city,  round  whose  virgin  zone 
The  rivers  like  two  mighty  arms  were  thrown, 
Marked  by  the  smoke  of  evening  fires  alone — 

"  Lay  in  the  distance,  lovely  even  then, 
^  With  its  fair  women  and  its  stately  men 

Gracing  the  forest-court  of  William  Penn — 

"  Urban  yet  sylvan;    in  its  rough-hewn  frames 
Of  oak  and  pine  the  dryads  held  their  claims, 
And  lent  its  streets  their  pleasant  woodland  names." 


And  to  this  day  many  of  the  streets  of  Philadelphia  retain  "  their  pleasant  rural 
names,"  as  Pine,  Chestnut,  Vine,  and  others.  The  great  majority,  however,  are  desig- 
nated by  numerals — a  prosaic,  mechanical  system,  which  seems  to  be  generally  adopted  in 


77 


42 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


our  larger  American  cities,  though    it    was    never    found    necessary   for    Paris,  London,  or 
Vienna. 

In  the  West  Park  will  be  erected,  in  1876,  the  superb  buildings  intended  for  the 
International  Exhibition  connected  with  the  Centennial  Celebration.  The  central  struct- 
ure will  be  permanent,  and  will  remain  most  probably,  for  ages  to  come,  an  ornament  to 


Drive   along   the   Wissahickon. 

the  Park,  a  source  of  attraction  to  strangers,  and  an  object  of  pride  to  citizens.  The 
crowds  of  visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  who  will  flock  to  Philadelphia  on  the 
occasion  of  the  official  celebration  of  our  hundredth  national  birthday,  will  ever  recall 
with  pleasure  the  sylvan  beauties  of  Fairmount  Park,  and  will  spread  far  and  wide  the 
fame  of  this  most  delightful  pleasure-resort.  In  twenty  years,  Fairmount  will  be  as 
famous  in  its  way  as  the   Bois  de  Boulogne  of   Paris,  Hyde    Park    of   London,  the    Pin- 


PHILADELPHIA    AND    ITS    SUBURBS. 


43 


cian  Hill  of   Rome,  the  Cascine  of   Florence,  or  the  Prater  of   Vienna.      It    possesses    a 
greater  variety  of  natural  beauty  than  any  of  them. 

No  notice  of  Philadelphia  would  be  complete  without  some  description  of  the  Wissa- 
hickon.  This  very  picturesque  little  river  winds  through  a  narrow  valley,  between  steep 
and  richly-wooded  banks,  and  possesses  all  the  wildness  of   a    stream  far  from  the  haunts 


Wissahickon,  near    Paper-Mill   Bridge. 


of  men,  though  it  is  but  a  few  miles  from  one  of  the  largest  cities  on  the  continent. 
Its  beauties  begin  from  the  moment  it  pours  its  crystal  current  into  the  waters  of  the 
Schuylkill.  As  it  approaches  the  latter  river,  it  is  quiet  and  peaceful ;  but  it  soon  be- 
comes almost  a  mountain-torrent,  as  it  is  confined  between  narrow  banks  and  overshad- 
owed by  towering  hills.     Its  .water-power  has  been  made  available  for  manufacturing  pur- 


44  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

poses ;  but,  as  it  has  lately  been  included  within  the  limits  of  Fairmount  Park,  it  is 
understood  that  the  unromantic  mill-buildings  will  be  soon  removed,  and  nothing  allowed 
to  remain  which  can  in  any  way  interfere  with  its  wild  and  picturesque  beauty.  Even 
at  present,  these  objectionable  structures  are  not  wholly  unsightly ;  and  the  factories  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Wissahickon  are  so  shaded  by  foliage  that,  in  conjunction  with  the 
arches  of  the  bridges  near  by,  they  offer  tempting  bits  of  form  and  color  for  the  artist's 
pencil.  The  old  log-cabin  bridge,  which  crosses  the  stream  at  one  point,  has  attracted 
the  attention  of  both  amateur  and  professional  sketchers  nearly  as  much  as  the  falls 
which  give  variety  to  one  of  its  widest  stretches. 

A  wide  carriage-road  runs  along  the  bank  of  the  Wissahickon,  and  is  a  favorite  drive 
of  the  Philadelphians,  the  river  dancing  along  on  one  side,  and  high,  rocky  projections, 
crowned  with  wild,  overhanging  trees  and  shrubbery,  bordering  the  other.  Nothing  can 
surpass  the  variety  of  this  river-scenery.  Even  the  covered  bridge,  so  often  an  unsightly 
object  in  the  rural  scenery  of  America,  when  compared  with  the  open,  arched  bridges  of 
Europe,  seems  to  be  in  keeping  here.  We  can  hardly  say  as  much  for  the  so-called 
"  Pipe  Bridge,"  which,  to  the  unprofessional  eye,  looks  as  if  it  were  thrown  upside-down 
across  the  valley. 

Various  restaurants  and  houses  of  resort  for  pleasure -seekers  are  to  be  found  on  the 
Wissahickon  road.  Other  spots  are  noted  as  the  localities  of  various  traditions,  generally 
of  a  rather  apocryphal  nature.  Near  the  "log-cabin"  is  a  lane  which  leads  to  a  well, 
dug,  some  two  centuries  ago,  by  one  John  Kelpius,  who  is  generally  known  as  "  the 
hermit  of  the  Wissahickon.  This  man,  a  graduate  of  the  University  of  Helmstadt,  in 
Germany,  came  to  Philadelphia  in  1694,  with  a  party  of  two  hundred  followers,  who  had 
adopted  his  peculiar  religious  views.  Whittier  says  that  the  "  M agister  Johann  Kelpius  " 
was  a  believer  in  the  near  approach  of  the  millennium,  and  was  thoroughly  imbued  with 
the  mystic  views  of  the  German  philosophers.  He  called  his  settlement  by  the  odd 
name  of  "The  Woman  in  the  Wilderness."  He  died  in  1704,  when  only  thirty-four 
years  of  age,  while  in  the  act  of  preaching  to  his  disciples  in  his  garden.  He  was  the 
possessor  of  a  "  stone  of  wisdom,"  which  he  threw  into  the  river  shortly  before  his  death, 
and  which  has  never  been  found.  He  seems  to  have  been  a  believer  in  the  theories  of 
the  alchemists  of  the  middle  ages,  and  during  his  lifetime  was  viewed  with  distrust  by 
the  Pennsylvania  Quakers.     Whittier  speaks  of  him  as  "  the  painful  Kelpius,"  who — 

"  in  his  hermit  den 
By  Wissahickon,  maddest  of  good  men, 
Dreamed  o'er  the  Chiliast  dreams  of  Petersen." 

There,  where  "  the  small  river  slid  snake-like  in  the  shade,"  he  is  described  as  crooning 
wizard-like  over  forbidden  books,  and,  by  the  aid  of  his  magical  stone,  seeing  visions  as 
strange  and  terrible  as  those  beheld  by  the  inspired  eye  of  the  Seer  of  Patmos. 


SCENES    ON     THE     NA^ISSAHICKON, 


46 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Laurel  Hill,  the  famous  cemetery  of  Philadelphia,  which  for  many  years  has  been 
the  subject  of  artistic  illustration,  is  now,  like  the  Wissahickon,  included  within  the 
limits  of  Fairmount  Park,  though  a  suitable  wall  of  partition  secures  to  it  the  privacy 
becoming  a  metropohs  of  the  dead.  Here  rest  many  of  the  most  noted  citizens  of 
Philadelphia,  including  persons  who  have  won  an  abiding  fame  in  the  worlds  of  literature 
and  of  art.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  Schuylkill  is  another  cemetery,  known  by  the 
rather  cumbrous  name  of  West  Laurel  Hill.  The  other  cemeteries  of  the  Pennsylvanian 
metropolis  are  known  as  Monument  Cemetery  (from  a  monument  erected  to  the  joint 
memories  of  Washington  and  Lafayette),  Mount  Peace,  Mount  Vernon,  Glenwood, 
Mount  Moriah,  Woodland,  and  the  Cathedral  Cemetery,  the  latter  being  the  favorite 
place  of  interment  of  the  Roman  Catholic  community.  There  are,  besides  these,  various 
smaller  cemeteries,  belonging  to  different  organized  societies. 


On   the   Wissahickon   at   Sunset. 


SCENES    IN    NORTHERN    NEW    JERSEY. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY   JULES   TAVERNIER. 


Scene  on  the  Passaic. 


A  LTHOUGH  New  Jersey,  ever  since  her  admission  into  the  Union,  has  been  the 
-^  *-  butt  for  the  sarcasm  and  wit  of  those  who  live  outside  her  borders,  the  gallant 
little  State  has  much  to  be  proud  of  Her  history  is  rich  in  instances  of  heroism,  espe- 
cially during  the  Revolutionary  period.  Her  prosperity  is  far  greater  than  that  of  many 
noisier  and  more  excitable  communities.  Her  judiciary  has  made  the  name  of  "Jersey 
justice"  a  terror  to  the  evil-doer.  Her  territory  includes  every  variety  of  scenery,  from 
the  picturesque  hills  and  lakes  of  her  northern  to  the  broad  sand-wastes  of  her  southern 
counties.  Those  interested  in  the  statistics  of  industry  will  find  much  that  is  worthy  of 
notice  in  her  iron-works  and  other  great  manufacturing  establishments,  while  those  who 
seek  the  indolent  delights  of  summer  enjoyment  cannot  fail  to  be  charmed  with  her 
famous  and  fashionable  sea-side  resorts. 

The  picturesque  features  of   New  Jersey  lie  almost  entirely  in   the    northern    section 
of  the  State,  and  are  within  easy  reach  of  the    great    metropolis.      Indeed,  thousands   of 


EAGLE     ROCK,     ORANGE. 


I^-Kcs^^-^^^^^^  '"i^^^^^  f^-S  fAVERNiEf?^ 


WASHINGTON     ROCK. 


78 


50  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

the  business-men  of  New  York  live  in  the  midst  of  these  picturesque  scenes,  an  hour's 
ride  serving  to  convey  them  from  the  turmoil  of  city  occupations  to  the  serene  quiet  and 
sylvan  charms  of  rural  life.  Jersey  City  and  Newark  are  flourishing  cities,  with  popula- 
tions of  their  own  ;  but  the  multitudinous  smaller  towns  and  villages,  within  a  radius  of 
fifty  miles,  owe  their  existence  entirely  to  the  surplus  population  of   New  York. 

A  ride  of  seven  or  eight  miles  brings  the  traveller  from  the  valley  of  the  Hudson 
to  the  valley  of  the  Passaic,  the  latter  being  bounded,  at  some  distance  inland,  by  the 
abrupt,  precipitous  range  of  hills  known  generally  as  Orange  Mountain.  A  dozen  years 
ago,  this  mountain  was  a  wild,  uninhabited  region.  The  Dutch  farmers  who  originally 
settled  in  this  vicinity  were  content  to  nestle  in  the  grassy  valleys,  preferring  for  their 
homes  the  quiet  plains  rather  than  seeking  for  picturesque  nooks  on  the  frowning  hill- 
side. They  built  solid  one-story  houses  of  gray-stone,  covering  them  with  overhanging 
roofs,  and  caring  in  their  domestic  arrangements  rather  for  comfort  than  for  elegance. 
Many  of  these  simple  yet  substantial  structures  are  standing  at  this  day,  giving  shelter 
to  the  descendants  of  those  who  built  them.  Others  have  passed  into  the  hands  of  city- 
folk,  and  have  been  decked  out  with  verandas,  furnished  with  larger  windows,  and  even 
provided  with  Mansard  roofs,  so  that  it  is  difficult  to  recognize  in  these  reconstructed 
edifices  the  solid  old  farm-houses  of  a  hundred  years  ago.  In  no  part  of  the  country 
has  speculation  in  real  estate  been  carried  on  more  vigorously  or  more  successfully  than 
in  Northern  New  Jersey,  and  many  a  hard-working  farmer  has  found  himself  unexpect- 
edly rich  through  the  marvellous  rise  in  the  value  of  the  land  which  his  fathers  consid- 
ered as  only  adapted  to  the  raising  of  cabbages  or  potatoes.  In  the  last  few  years, 
railroad  communication  has  increased  to  such  an  extent  that  almost  every  farm  in 
Northern  New  Jersey  enjoys  the  advantage  of  being  "near  the  station" — a  privilege 
which  only  those  who  live  in  the  country  can  fully  appreciate. 

One  of  the  first  and  most  successful  attempts  at  landscape-gardening  on  a  large 
scale,  in  this  country,  was  made  by  the  late  Llewellyn  S.  Haskell,  a  gentleman  who  was 
especially  enamoured  of  rural  life,  and  who  to  ample  means  and  unflagging  energy  added 
a  finished  and  cultivated  taste.  He  purchased  a  large  tract  of  land  on  Orange  Moun- 
tain, and  laid  it  out  as  a  park,  in  which  he  and  his  friends  built  a  variety  of  elegant 
private  residences.  No  attempt  was  made  to  deprive  this  region  of  its  wild  primeval 
beauty.  Roads  were  laid  out,  winding  in  gentle  curves  amid  the  rugged  rocks  and 
through  the  rich  and  picturesque  forests.  Near  Eagle  Rock,  the  proprietor  of  this 
superb  domain  erected  his  own  home,  at  a  point  which  commands  a  view  more  extensive 
than  any  other  in  the  vicinity  of  New  York.  Beneath  the  spectator  lies  the  cultivated 
valley,  covered  with  villages,  and  partially  bounded  by  the  Bergen  Hills.  To  the  south 
can  be  seen  the  gleam  of  the  waters  of  the  bay  of  New  York  and  of  the  Atlantic 
Ocean,  and,  under  favorable  atmospheric  circumstances,  the  spires  of  the  great  city.  The 
whole    eastern    slope   of  the    mountain,  for    several    miles    in    length,  is    dotted  with    resi- 


\ 


52 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


dences,  most  of  which  command  this  dehghtful  view,  which  increases  in  diversity  and 
beauty,  though  not  in  extent,  as  you  go  northward  into  the  prosperous  town  of 
Montclair. 

At  the  foot  of  the   mountain   there  is  a  well-kept  road,  which  is  a  favorite  drive  for 
the    residents    of  the  vicinity,  affording  as  it  does,  in  the  warm    summer    afternoons,  that 


Terrace  House  and  Thorn  Mountain. 


"shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land"  of  which  the  Scriptural  poet  spoke  so  many 
thousand  years  ago  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  offering  a  goodly  view  of  the  level  plain. 
From  this  road — though  it  is  at  a  much  lower  elevation  than  the  point  of  view  sug- 
gested in  our  engraving — Eagle  Rock  is  seen  towering  up  in  majestic  grandeur,  as  bold 
and  rugged  as  when  only  the  red-men  inhabited  this  charming  region.     The  eagles,  which 


54 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


gave  it  its  name,  are  now  but  seldom  seen ;  yet  the  hoary,  scarred  projection  seems  to 
the  eye  as  distant  and  as  desolate  as  when  it  was  indeed  the  home  of  the  king  of 
birds. 

Still  more  striking  in  appearance,  and  more  picturesque  in  formation,  is  Washington 
Rock,  on  the  same  range  of  hills.  This  rock  is  divided  by  a  deep  chasm  into  two  parts^ 
one  of  which  has  evidently  been  cleft  from  its  fellow  by  some  great  convulsion  of  Na- 
ture, and  has  fallen  several  rods  down  the  slope  of  the  hill,  where  it  stands  firm  and 
upright.     From  this  rock  it  is  said  that  George  Washington  viewed  the  land  below,  eager 


Little   Falls. 


to  trace  the  course  of  the  British  army.  At  that  time  the  plain  was  cultivated,  it  is 
true;  but  the  pretty  little  village  of  Dunellen,  which  to-day  forms  so  pleasing  a  feature 
of  the  scene,  was  then  unthought  of,  and  the  mountain  itself  was  as  wild  and  uninhab- 
ited as  the  far-distant  Sierras.  Washington  Rock  is  now  a  favorite  resort  for  picnic- 
parties,  and  for  the  tourist  who  seeks  to  gratify  his  taste  for  the  picturesque. 

Farther  to  the  north  of  the  State  is  the  Ramapo  River,  a  stream  which  finds  its 
way  between  high  hills,  and  is  frequently  made  use  of  for  manufacturing  purposes.  Over 
one  of  the  dams  which  obstruct  its  course,  the  water  flows  in  a  graceful  cascade,  which, 
but  for  its  prim   regularity,  would  equal  in  its  beauty  of  motion   the  natural   falls  which 


56  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

are  ever  such  a  source  of  delight  to  the  lover  of  the  beautiful.  To  such,  indeed,  the 
Ramapo  offers  many  attractions.  The  stream,  in  its  numerous  curves,  constantly  presents 
fresh  points  of  view.  The  hills — sometimes  abrupt,  sometimes  rolling — here  and  there 
recede  from  the  river's  edge,  leaving  grassy  fields  or  rocky  plateaus,  on  either  of  which 
it  is  a  pleasure  to  stroll,  listening,  as  did  Sir  Bedivere,  to — 

"...  hear  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

The  sails  on  the  river  add  to  the  variety  of  the  scene ;  the  fisherman's  row-boat  imparts 
to  it  notable  life  and  vivacity ;  and  the  wreathed  smoke  of  the  locomotive  does  not 
seem  wholly  inharmonious.  In  fact,  the  railroad-train  has  become  quite  a  prominent 
incident  in  our  river-scenery.  Railroads  naturally  follow  the  river-courses,  and  they  give 
to  the  wildest  and  most  unfrequented  valleys  a  touch  of  human  life  and  interest  which 
greatly  adds  to  the  effect  of  mountain  solitudes.  Heard  in  the  far  distance,  the  whistle 
of  the  locomotive  sounds  really  musical.  The  rumbling  of  the  approaching  train — now 
enhanced  by  a  sudden  echo,  now  deadened  by  a  plunge  into  a  tunnel — grows  nearer  and 
stronger,  till,  as  the  long  line  of  cars  passes  by,  it  becomes  less  and  less  distinct,  and, 
dying  away  in  the  distance,  renders  the  solitude  of  the  hills,  by  contrast,  still  more  lonely. 
There  is  in  all  this  a  certain  picturesque  effect  of  sound — if  the  expression  may  be 
allowed — which  harmonizes  well  with  the  rural  scenery.  When  a  railroad  was  first  pro- 
jected along  the  shore  of  the  Hudson  River,  the  occupants  of  the  elegant  country-seats 
which  adorn  the  green  banks  of  that  noble  stream,  were  highly  indignant  at  what  they 
deemed  an  invasion  of  their  rights,  and  an  outrage  upon  the  quietude  and  beauty  of  their 
homes.  Audubon,  the  celebrated  naturalist,  who  lived  on  the  Hudson,  was  so  affected  by 
this  innovation  that  his  anxiety  on  the  subject  is  said  to  have  shortened  his  life.  To- 
day, however,  no  one  complains  of  the  passing  trains,  which,  in  fact,  add  a  peculiar  ele- 
ment of  human  interest  to  the  wildest  and  grandest  scenery. 

There  are  many  other  points  of  picturesque  beauty  in  Northern  New  Jersey,  to 
which  we  can  only  briefly  allude.  Greenwood  Lake,  on  the  boundary-line  between  New 
Jersey  and  New  York,  is  sometimes  called  the  Windermere  of  America,  and,  in  its  quiet, 
graceful  beauty,  will  remind  the  traveller  of  the  famed  English  lake.  It  has  of  late  years 
become  a  recognized  place  of  resort — perhaps  the  most  noted  in  the  State,  with  the 
exception  of  Cape  May,  Atlantic  City,  and  Long  Branch. 

Among  the  hills  and  streams  of  the  section  of  country  to  which  these  few  pages 
are  devoted  may  be  found  many  attractive  nooks — many  quietly-beautiful  homes,  like 
Terrace  House,  which  is  overlooked  by  a  towering  mountain-peak,  worthy  of  companion- 
ship with  the  mountains  of  New  Hampshire.  But,  as  a  general  thing,  the  scenery  of 
Northern  New  Jersey  is  on  a  less  extensive  scale.  The  hills,  rugged  and  wild  as  they 
may  be,  after  all,  cannot  fairly  be  called  mountains.      The    lakes    are    small,  and  the  nar- 


PASSAIC     FALLS. 


79 


58  •  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

row  rivers  find  devious  paths  among  their  rocky  barriers.     Principal  among  these  streams 
is   that    on   which    the    largest    city  of   New  Jersey  is   situated.      Indeed,  the    Passaic,  to 
which  allusion  is  made,  is,  not    only  in  its  historic  interest,  but  its  great    length,  breadth 
and  commercial  importance,  a  notable  exception  among  the  rivers  of   New  Jersey.      For, 
though    rising    in    and    flowing    for   much   of  its    course   through  a  hilly  and    rock-bound 
region,  the  Passaic    River    is    the    most    tortuous    and    the    most    sluggish,  as  well  as  the 
longest,  stream    in    the    State.      From    its    extreme    source,  in   the    upper  part  of  Morris 
County,  it   flows,  as   gently  as  "  sweet  Avon,"  between  the  hills  of  that    county  and    Es- 
sex, taking  toll  of   Dead  River  as  it  passes  the  base  of  Long    Hill,  and    thence    stealing 
its  way,  with    scarcely  a  ripple,  through    narrow  vale   and    broad  valley,  for   twenty  miles 
among  the  defiles  of  the  Horseshoe  Mountain,  till  it  receives  the  tribute  of  the  vivacious 
Rockaway.      Stimulated  apparently  by  the  instillation  of  this  lively  little  rock-stream,  or 
perhaps  awakened  to  the  sense  of  an   impending  crisis  in  its  fate,  it   emerges    from    the 
last    defile  with  a  sudden  start,  and   almost  rushes  for  a  few  miles    toward    its    first    leap 
over  the  rapids  of  Little  Falls,  nearly  opposite  the  somewhat  uninteresting  manufacturing 
village  of  that  name.      This    first    saltatory  experiment  of  the    Passaic,  though    compara- 
tively of  a  gentle  character,  is  still  not  devoid  of  picturesque  beauty,  or  even  of  a  certain 
grandeur.     The  fall  is  more  than  three  hundred  feet  broad,  and  is  formed  with  an  obtuse 
angle    opening    down-stream,  over  which    the    river,  just    pausing    to    smoothe    its    ruffled 
surface  on  the  brink,  leaps  in  two  broad  sheets  of  foam-capped,  spray-clouded  water,  and 
then  glides  away  serenely  to  perform  a  similar  feat  a  short  distance    lower    down,  at    the 
Second  Fall — the  two  being  possibly  in  the  nature   of  rehearsals    for   the    final    acrobatic 
struggle  at  the  Great  Passaic  Falls,  some  six  miles  below.     The  scenery  along  the  river, 
during  its  leisurely  loiterings  through  the  mountains,  and  its  scarcely  more  hurried  voyage 
athwart  the  valleys  of  its    upper   course,  is  of  that    peculiar    character  which    belongs    to 
such  regions.      Tall    masses    of  rock    rise    abruptly,  at   intervals,  on    its    banks,  like   great 
buttresses,  or  still  more  like  the  massive  and  forest-grown  ruins  of  mighty  rock-structures, 
such    as    are    found    here    and   there   along  the  water-courses  of  the  wondrous  Southwest. 
The  river-bed  is  rocky ;   yet  the  flow  is  hardly  fretted  into   ripples   by  these    up-cropping 
barriers,  but  seems  to  hold  the  even  tenor  of  its  way  with  a  quiet  disregard  of  obstacles 
that  is  eminently  suggestive   of  a    serene    philosophy.      At  Little  Falls  the  Morris  Canal 
crosses  the  river  by  a  handsome  stone  aqueduct ;   and  from  the  summit  of  this  the  artis- 
tic  loungers    may  obtain  a  charming  view  of  the    stream,  winding    down    between    over- 
hanging   hills    of    greenery,    and   jutting    escarpments    of    cedar- crowned    trap -rock    and 
sandstone,  toward    Great    Falls,  and   the   more   level  reaches  of  the    Paterson    plains    and 
the  salt-marshes  of  Newark.     Before  reaching  this  point,  however,  the  river  undergoes  a 
second  tribulation  in  the  shape    of  another    faU    and    rapid,  which    rouse    its    sluggishness 
into  momentary  and  picturesque  fury,  and  over  and  down  which  it  roars  in  foamy  wrath, 
scarcely  subdued  in  time  to  collect  itself  for  the  struggle  five  miles  beyond.     But  it  does 


6o 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


subside,  and,  assuming  once  more  a  tranquil  air  of  unconsciousness,  rolls  smoothly  to  the 
verge,  and  then  plunges  boldly,  in  one  unbroken  column,  over  the  precipice  of  the  Great 
Falls,  dropping,  like  a  liquid  thunder-bolt,  sheer  ninety  feet  into  a  deep  and  narrow 
chasm  of  less  than  sixty  feet  in  wicfth,  through  which  it  dashes  and  foams  in  short-lived 
madness,  to  rest  and  glass  itself  upon  a  broad,  still  basin,  hollowed  by  its  own  labors 
from  the  solid  rock.  After  leaving  this  basin,  the  river  is  vexed  no  more,  but  flows 
pleasantly  past  many  thriving  towns  and  hamlets,  giving  of  its  tide  to  turn  the  wheels 
of  industry  here  and  there,  spanned  by  bridged  of  many  forms  and  purposes,  from  the 
elaborate  iron  arch  of  the  railway  to  the  rude  rusticity  of  the  wooden  foot-bridge.  Its 
path  now  lies  amid  rich  uplands  and  orchards,  teeming  fields,  and  the  dwellings  of  a 
prosperous  agricultural  community.  But  there  are  still  many  picturesque  glimpses  of  a 
wilder  nature  along  its  course,  and  many  a  spot  known  to  the  disciples  of  the  "  gentle 
Izaak "  as  giving  and  fulfilling  the  promise  of  excellent  sport  and  the  added  charm 
of  attractive  scenery.  From  Paterson  to  Newark  the  shores  spread  like  an  amphitheatre 
covered  with  verdure,  dotted  thickly  with  dwellings  and  the  monuments  of  successful 
enterprise  and  industry,  giving  it  the  appearance  of  a  watery  highway  through  a  pictu- 
resque succession  of  close-lying  villages  and  centres  of  busy  life. 


Near  Greenwood  Lake. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY   J.    DOUGLAS    WOODWARD. 


I  ^HE  charms  of  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Connecticut  have  so   often  been  described 

-*-      that  all  persons  of  intelligence  in  this  country  must  have  some  knowledge  of  them. 

Among  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire  and  Vermont  the  queen  of  our  New-England  rivers 

takes  its  rise.     Flowing  in  a  nearly  southerly  direction  for  four  hundred  miles,  it  forms  the 


62 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


I  =a 


Saybrook. 


dividino^  line  between  the  two  States  in  which 
It  had  its  birth.  Crossing  the  States  of  Mas- 
sachusetts and  Connecticut,  it  empties  into  the 
Long-Island  Sound.  Through  this  charming 
valley  we  now  propose  to  pass,  from  the 
mouth  of  the  river  to  its  northern  head, 
near  Canada,  our  artist  meanwhile  giving  us 
sketches  of  some  of  the  leading  points  of  interest,  and  making  us  acquainted  with  the 
rare  beauty  of  its  exceedingly  varied  and  picturesque  scenery. 

Leaving  the  cars  at  the  junction  of  the  Shore  Line  Railway  with  that  of  the  Con- 
necticut River,  if  we  are  good  pedestrians  we  shall  not  fail  to  walk  the  entire  length  of 
the  broad  street  on  which  have  been  built  most  of  the  houses  of  the  ancient  town  of  Say- 
brook.  Although  the  distance  to  Saybrook  Point — the  terminus  of  the  railroad  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Connecticut — is  not  far  from  two  miles,  we  shall  not  find  our  walk  a  weari- 
some one.  The  venerable  elms  beneath  which  we  pass  will  remind  us  of  the  olden  times, 
and  there  will  be  enough  of  the  antique  meeting  our  eye  to  carry  us  back  to  the  times 
when  Lord  Say  and  Seal  and  Lord  Brook,  in  the  unsettled  period  of  the  reign  of 
Charles  I.,  procured  from    Robert,  Earl    of  Warwick,  a  patent    of  a    large    tract    of  land, 


THE     VALLEY    OE    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


63 


within  which  was  included  the  territory  on  which  the  town  of  Saybrook  was  laid  out  in 
1635.  Our  walk  has  brought  us  to  a  gentle  rise  of  land,  from  which  we  get  a  distinct 
view  of  Long-Island  Sound.  On  our  right  is  a  cemetery,  through  the  iron  gate  of 
which  we  pass,  and  come  almost  immediately  to  a  very  ancient  and  somewhat  rude 
monument.  We  read  the  simple  inscription — "Lady  Fenw-ick,  1648;"  and  we  are  in- 
formed that  she  was  Lady  Anne  Botler,  or  Butler,  the  daughter  of  an  English  nobleman, 
and  the  wife  of  General  Fenwick,  the  commandant  of  the  fort  erected  not  far  from  this 
spot.  Another  item  of  historic  interest  also  comes  to  our  notice.  The  place  where  we 
are  now  standing  was  laid  out  in  those  early  days  with  great  care,  as  it  was  expected   to 


-.^jii*^ 


Mouth   of  Park   River. 


become  the  residence  of  eminent  men,  and  the  centre  of  great  business  and  wealth.  Oliver 
Cromwell,  with  a  company  of  men  who,  subsequently,  during  the  period  of  the  English 
Commonwealth,  became  so  distinguished,  actually  embarked  in  the  Thames,  intending  to 
settle  in  Saybrook.  A  square  was  laid  out  a  little  west  from  the  fort,  in  which  the  plan 
was  to  erect  houses  for  Cromwell,  Pym,  Hampden,  and  other  well-known  commoners  of 
England.  What  different  fortunes  might  have  befallen  the  mother-country  had  the  pro- 
ject been  carried  out!  Saybrook  Point  had  the  honor  of  being  selected  as  the  site  for 
the  collegiate  school  which  afterward  became  Yale  College.  The  building  first  erected 
must  have  borne  some  resemblance  to  a  rope-walk,  being  one  story  in  height  and  eighty 
feet  in  length. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


65 


Leaving  Saybrook  —  a 
place  around  which  cluster 
so  many  venerable  associa- 
tions— we  begin  our  ascent 
of  the  river.  We  soon  pass 
through  scenes  which  remind 
us,  on  a  diminished  scale,  of 
the  Highlands  of  the  Hud- 
son River.  A  sail  of  thirty 
miles  brings  us  to  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  places  on 
the  river  —  M  iddletown  —  a 
partial  view  of  which  our 
artist  has  given  us,  the  sketch 
having  been  taken  above  the 
city.  As  the  writer  was  walk- 
ing up  from  the  river  to  the 
McDonough  House,  he  had 
for  his  companion    Professor 

S ,     of     the      VVesleyan 

University.  On  remarking 
to  him  that  it  was  his  prac- 
tice while  travelling  in  Eu- 
rope to  seek  some  elevated 
spot  from  which  to  get  a 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  places 
he  visited,  allusion  having 
been  especially  made  to  the 
view  of  Athens  obtained 
from  Lycabettus,  the  pro- 
fessor replied  that  nowhere 
abroad  had  he  seen  any 
thing  more  beautiful  than 
M  iddletown  and  its  sur- 
roundings from  some  high 
spot  in  the  western  section 
of  the  city.  As  we  stood 
on  the  top  of  Judd  Hall, 
one    of  the  buildings  of  the 


80 


66  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

Wesleyan  University,  and  let  the  eye  range  over  the  widely-extended  scene,  we  could 
heartily  respond  in  the  affirmative  to  this  remark.  The  city  itself  presents  a  most  attrac- 
tive appearance,  with  its  streets  of  generous  width,  adorned  with  shade-trees  and  many 
elegant  mansions  and  public  buildings.  The  Methodists  have  here  one  of  their  earliest 
and  most  flourishing  seats  of  learning  in  the  country,  founded  in  183 1.  Its  oldest  build- 
ings were  originally  built  for  the  American  Literary,  Scientific,  and  Military  Academy, 
under  the  care  of  Captain  Partridge.  This  institution  not  meeting  with  the  success 
which  its  projectors  had  anticipated,  it  was  purchased  by  the  Methodists,  and,  under  the 
care  of  that  denomination,  is  taking  high  rank  among  the  best  colleges  of  the  land. 
Some  of  its  buildings,  especially  the  Memorial  Hall  and  Judd  Hall,  are  among  the 
finest  of  their  kind  in  the  country. 

Opposite  Middletown  are  the  famous  freestone  quarries,  from  which  some  of  the 
most  stately  and  costly  buildings  in  New  York  and  other  cities  have  been  erected.  Ac- 
cording to  tradition,  the  rocks  at  the  northern  and  principal  opening  originally  hung 
shelving  over  the  river.  They  were  used  for  building-material  not  long  after  the  settle- 
ment of  Middletown.  A  meeting  was  held  in  that  town  in  1665,  at  which  a  resolution 
was  passed  that  no  one  should  dig  or  raise  stones  at  the  rocks  on  the  east  side  of  the 
river  but  an  inhabitant  of  Middletown,  and  that  twelve  pence  should  be  paid  to  the 
town  for  every  ton  of  stones  taken.  Now  the  Connecticut  freestone  is  as  famous  as  the 
ancient  Pentelic  marble  from  the  quarries  near  Athens. 

The  level  tracts  north  of  Middletown  will  not  be  overlooked  by  the  tourist.  These 
meadow-lands,  which  are  found  all  along  the  Connecticut,  are  exceedingly  fertile ;  and 
some  of  the  finest  farms  in  the  New-England  States  have  been  formed  out  of  this  soil 
of  exceeding  richness.  It  was  these  meadow-lands  that  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
early  settlers  of  the  State,  and  brought  to  Connecticut  some  of  the  best  blood  of  the 
Plymouth  and  Massachusetts  colonies.  Above  Middletown,  a  few  miles,  is  Wethersfield, 
claimed  by  some  to  be  the  oldest  settlement  in  the  Commonwealth.  Among  those  early 
comers  to  the  lowlands  of  Connecticut  there  was  one  woman,  who  had  a  good  share 
of  spirit,  and,  we  judge,  no  small  amount  of  humor,  in  her  composition.  It  is  related 
that,  when  the  settlers  arrived  at  the  place  where  they  were  to  land,  some  controversy 
arose  who  should  first  set  foot  on  the  shore.  While  the  men  were  contendinsf  with 
each  other  for  this  privilege,  good  Mrs.  Barber,  taking  advantage  of  the  contention,  dex- 
terously sprang  forward,  and,  reaching  the  shore,  had  the  honor  of  first  treading  on  the 
soil.  Wethersfield  is  a  venerable,  staid  old  place,  long  celebrated  for  a  specialty  to  which 
its  inhabitants  have  directed  their  attention — the  cultivation  of  the  onion.  It  is  also  the 
seat  of  the  State-prison,  which,  if  we  mistake  not,  the  authorities  of  Connecticut,  with 
their  traditional  skill  in  turning  an  honest  penny  from  all  enterprises  in  which  they  em- 
bark, have  made  a  source  of  no  little  income  to  the  State. 

We  are  now  approaching  one  of  the  most  charming  cities  in  our  country — the   city 


68 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


of   Hartford.     The  scenery  all  about  it  is  of  a  very  picturesque  character.     Its  banks  are 
among  the  most  beautiful  levels  on  the  river,  and    indicate   at    a    single    glance  that  they 


r^ 


Stone   Bridge,  Hartford. 


must  be  a  mine  of  agricultural  wealth  to  the  cultivators  of  the  soil.     The  original  name 
of  the  place  did  not  carry  with  it  the   euphony  which    usually  characterizes    the    old    In- 


Terrace   Hill,  City    Park,  Hartford. 


dian  names,  it  being  called  Suckiaug.     The  story  of  the  hardships  of  its  early  settlers    is 
a  familiar  one.      Dr.    Trumbull    tells   us    that,   "about    the    beginning    of  June,   1635,  Mr 


THE     VALLEY    OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


69 


Hooker,  Mr.  Stone,  and  about  one  hundred  men,  women,  and  children,  took  their  de- 
parture from  Cambridge,  and  travelled  more  than  a  hundred  miles  through  a  hideous  and 
trackless  wilderness  to  Hartford.  They  had  no  guide  but  their  compass,  and  made  their 
way  over  mountains,  through  swamps,  thickets,  and  rivers,  which  were  not  passable  but 
with  great  difficulty.     They  had  no    cover   but    the    heavens,  nor  any  lodgings  but    those 


Main-Street   Bridge,   Hartford 


that  simple  nature  afforded  them.  They  drove  with  them  a  hundred  and  sixty  head  of 
cattle,  and  by  the  way  subsisted  on  the  milk  of  their  cows.  Mrs.  Hooker  was  borne 
through  the  wilderness  upon  a  litter.  The  people  carried  their  packs,  arms,  and  some 
utensils.  They  were  nearly  a  fortnight  on  their  journey.  This  adventure  was  the  more 
remarkable,  as  many  of  this  company  were  persons  of  figure,  who  had  lived  in  England 
in  honor,  affluence,  and  delicacy,  and  were    entire    strangers   to   fatigue    and    danger."      It 


70  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

does  not  fall  within  our  design  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  these  adventurers.  It  is  out 
of  our  power  to  comprehend  the  difficulties  which  they  encountered.  Among  their 
severest  trials  was  the  constant  dread  in  which  for  years  they  lived  of  the  attacks  of  the 
savages,  by  whom  they  were  surrounded,  who,  with  ill-concealed  chagrin,  saw  the  rich 
possessions  over  which,  without  let  or  hinderance  they  had  been  wont  to  roam,  shpping 
out  of  their  hands,  and  the  white  men  becoming  the  lords  of  the  soil. 

The  city  of  Hartford,  in  our  judgment,  contrasts  favorably  with  the  many  places  in 
our  country  which,  if  looked  down  upon  by  an  observer  a  few  hundred  feet  in  the  air, 
look  like  a  checker-board.  The  very  irregularity  of  its  laying-out  adds  to  its  charms. 
It  is  divided  at  the  south  part  by  Mill  or  Little  River,  two  bridges  across  which  are  seen 
in  the  accompanying  sketches.  We  present  also  a  sketch  of  Terrace  Hill,  in  the  City 
Park,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  spots  in  the  city.  Just  back  of  the  fine  old  trees  which 
occupy  the  centre  of  the  picture  are  the  buildings  of  Trinity  College,  an  Episcopal  in- 
stitution, which  has  done  good  service  in  the  cause  of  sound  learning.  On  the  grounds 
is  a  noble  statue  of  Bishop  Brownell,  in  which  he  is  represented  in  full  sacerdotal  robes, 
looking  benignantly  over  the  scene  on  which  his  eye  is  supposed  to  rest.  The  buildings 
of  Trinity  College  are  soon  to  be  removed  to  make  way  for  the  erection  of  the  Capitol 
of  the  State  of  Connecticut,  which  bids  fair  to  be  one  of  the  most  costly  and  elegant 
structures  of  its  kind  in  the  country. 

Hartford  is  celebrated  as  being  the  seat  of  some  of  the  best  charitable  institutions 
in  the  United  States.  Prominent  among  these  are  the  Asylum  for  the  Deaf  and  Dumb, 
and  the  Retreat  for  the  Insane.  The  first  of  these  institutions  was  founded  by  an  asso- 
ciation of  gentlemen  in  1815.  It  owes  its  origin  to  a  distinguished  clergyman,  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Cogswell,  the  father  of  a  beautiful  child  who  lost  her  hearing  at  the  age  of  two  years, 
and  not  long  after  her  speech.  Wishing  to  educate  this  daughter,  and  in  his  deep  sym- 
pathy including  other  young  persons  alike  unfortunate,  it  was  arranged  that  the  late  Rev. 
T.  H.  Gallaudet,  LL.  D.,  should  visit  Europe,  and  in  the  institutions  for  the  deaf  and 
dumb  in  the  old  country  gain  all  the  information  he  might  need  for  successfully  estab- 
lishing a  similar  institution  in  the  United  States.  On  his  return  he  was  accompanied 
by  Mr.  Laurent  Clerc,  himself  a  deaf-mute,  who,  under  the  celebrated  Abb6  Sicard,  had 
been  a  successful  teacher  for  several  years  in  Paris.  Under  the  joint  supervision  of 
Messrs.  Gallaudet  and  Le  Clerc,  the  institution  soon  won  its  way  to  popular  favor. 
The  number  of  its  pupils  increased  rapidly,  all  parts  of  the  country  being  represented 
among  them.  So  successfully  did  the  cause  of  its  unfortunate  inmates  appeal  to  the 
public  benevolence  that  Congress  granted  to  the  asylum  a  township  of  land  in  Ala- 
bama, the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  which  were  invested  in  a  permanent  fund. 

Half  a  mile,  in  a  southwesterly  direction  from  the  centre  of  the  city,  on  a  most 
sightly  spot,  is  the  Retreat  for  the  Insane.  Its  founders  showed  their  good  taste  in 
selecting  this  place  for    an    institution  which,  of  all    others,  should    be    so    situated    as   to 


THE     VALLEY    OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


71 


secure  for  its  inmates  every  thing  that  can  charm  and  soothe  a  disordered  mind.  From 
the  top  of  the  building  the  eye  ranges  over  a  scene  of  rare  beauty.  In  the  immediate 
vicinity  is  the  city  of  Hartford,  with  its  pubHc  buildings,  its  elegant  mansions,  and  its 
numerous  manufactories,  representing  the  industry  and  thrift  of  a  busy  town.  The  view 
of  the  Connecticut  Valley  in  both  directions,  north  and  south,  is  very  extensive,  and 
embraces  some  of  the  choicest  scenery  on  the  river.  Looking  west,  we  see  numerous 
villages,  in  which  are  found  forest-trees  and  orchards,  beneath  whose  grateful   shade  nestle 

cottages  and  farm-houses,  the  very  sight  of  which 
awakens  in  the  mind  most  gentle  and  soothing 
emotions,   making    us    fancy,  for   the    moment,  that 


Windsor   Locks,  Connecticut   River. 

into  such  a  paradise  sm  and  sorrow  have 
not  found  their  way.  The  grounds  of  the 
Retreat    have    been    laid    out    in    excellent 

taste.  Some  twenty  acres  furnish  the  most  ample  facilities  for  delightful  walks  and 
rides ;  while  the  old  trees,  standing  either  singly  or  in  clusters,  invite  to  quiet  repose 
those  whose  diseased  intellects  and  wayward  imaginations  may  find  rest  amid  such 
peaceful  scenes.  How  many  morbid  fancies,  how  many  strange  hallucinations  have 
been  put  to  flight  amid  these  scenes ;  how  changed  have  been  views  of  life  and 
duty,  which  have  made  the  world  both  dreary  and  desolate,  and  robbed  many  a  soul  of 
its   peace !      Let    any  one  with  nerves  shattered  by  excessive  brain-work,  and  weary  with 


72  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

the  daily  and  constant  toils  of  life,  walk  through  the  neat,  airy  halls  of  the  Retreat, 
or  wander  over  its  beautiful  grounds,  and  breathe  the  invigorating  airs  which  come 
from  the  neighboring  hills,  and  he  will  at  once  feel  a  kindly  influence  pervading  his 
whole  being,  and  filling  him  with  profound  gratitude  that  Christian  benevolence  has 
here  put  forth  her  best  efforts  to  alleviate  the  sorrows  of  humanity.  "  The  general 
system  of  moral  treatment  at  this  institution  is  to  allow  the  patients  all  the  liberty  and 
indulgences  consistent  with  their  own  safety  and  that  of  others ;  to  cherish  in  them  the 
sentiment  of  self-respect ;  to  excite  an  ambition  for  the  good-will  and  respect  of  others ; 
to  draw  out  the  latent  sparks  of  natural  and  social  affection  ;  and  to  occupy  their  atten- 
tion with  such  employments  and  amusements  as  shall  exercise  their  judgment,  and  with- 
draw their  minds  as  much  as  possible  from  every  former  scene  and  every  former  com- 
panion, and  give  an  entire  change  to  the  current  of  their  recollections  and  ideas.  By 
pursuing  this  course,  together  with  a  judicious  system  of  medication,  many  of  these  once 
miserable  beings,  cut  off  from  all  the  '  linked  sweetness '  of  conjugal,  parental,  filial,  and 
fraternal  enjoyment,  are  now  restored  to  the  blessings  of  health,  to  the  felicities  of  affec- 
tion, and  to  the  capacity  of  performing  the  relative  duties  of  domestic  and  social  life." 

Any  allusion  to  Hartford  without  reference  to  the  famous  "Charter  Oak"  would 
be  like  the  play  of  "  Hamlet "  with  the  character  of  Hamlet  left  out.  Although  the 
story  is  a  familiar  one  to  the  people  of  Connecticut,  we  do  not  lose  sight  of  the 
circumstance  that  we  are  writing  these  sketches  for  hundreds  and  thousands  in  our 
own  country,  and  in  other  lands,  who  have  not  so  much  as  heard  that  there  was 
a  "  Charter  Oak."  This  famous  tree,  now  no  longer  standing,  occupied  an  eminence 
rising  above  the  south  meadows,  not  far  from  the  ancient  mansion  of  the  Wyllys  family. 
Like  the  great  elm  on  Boston  Common,  its  age  is  unknown,  the  first  settlers  of  Hart- 
ford finding  it  standing  in  the  maturity  of  its  growth.  Some  idea  of  its  great  size  may 
be  formed  when  we  are  told  that  it  was  nearly  seven  feet  in  diameter.  The  cavity  in 
which  the  charter  was  hid  was  near  the  roots,  and  large  enough,  if  necessary,  to  conceal 
a  child.  The  story  of  the  "Charter  Oak"  is  soon  told.  In  December,  1686,  Sir  Ed- 
mund Andros,  who  had  been  appointed  the  first  governor-general  over  New  England, 
reached  Boston,  from  which  place  he  wrote  to  the  authorities  of  Connecticut  to  resign 
their  charter.  The  demand  was  not  complied  with.  "  The  Assembly  met  as  usual  in 
October,  and  the  government  continued  according  to  charter  until  the  last  of  the  month. 
About  this  time  Sir  Edmund,  with  his  suite  and  more  than  sixty  regular  troops,  came 
to  Hartford,  where  the  Assembly  were  sitting,  and  demanded  the  charter,  and  declared 
the  government  under  it  to  be  dissolved.  The  Assembly  were  extremely  reluctant  and 
slow  with  respect  to  any  resolve  to  bring  it  forth.  The  tradition  is  that  Governor  Treat 
strongly  represented  the  great  expense  and  hardships  of  the  colonists  in  planting  the 
country ;  the  blood  and  treasure  which  they  had  expended  in  defending  it,  both  against 
the    savages    and    foreigners ;   to  what    hardships    he    himself  had    been    exposed    for   that 


SCENES     AT     SPRINGFIELD. 


81 


74  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

purpose;  and  that  it  was  like  giving  up  his  life  now  to  surrender  the  patent  and  privi- 
leges so  dearly  bought  and  so  long  enjoyed.  The  important  affair  was  debated  and  kept 
in  suspense  until  the  evening,  when  the  charter  was  brought  and  laid  upon  the  table 
where  the  Assembly  were  sitting.  By  this  time  great  numbers  of  people  were  assem- 
bled, and  men  sufficiently  bold  to  enterprise  whatever  might  be  necessary  or  expedient. 
The  lights  were  instantly  extinguished,  and  one  Captain  Wadsworth,  of  Hartford,  in  the 
most  silent  and  secret  manner  carried  off  the  charter,  and  secreted  it  in  a  large  hollow 
tree  fronting  the  house  of  Hon.  Samuel  Wyllys,  then  one  of  the  magistrates  of  the 
colony.  The  people  all  appeared  peaceable  and  orderly.  The  candles  were  officiously 
relighted,  but  the  patent  was  gone,  and  no  discovery  could  be  made  of  it,  or  of  the 
person  who  carried  it  away."  The  "  Charter  Oak  "  was  cherished  as  an  object  of  venera- 
tion and  affection  by  the  inhabitants  of  Hartford  for  several  generations.  A  few  years 
since,  in  1856,  weakened  by  age  and  decay,  it  fell  before  the  blasts  of  a  severe  storm. 
It  lives  now  only  in  the  memory  of  a  generation  which  in  a  few  years  will,  like  their 
fathers,  have  passed  off  the  stage.  It  would  be  easy  to  extend  this  sketch  of  Hartford 
indefinitely  ;    but  we  are  warned  that  we  must  pass  on  to  other  scenes. 

As  we  journey  on  up  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut,  we  do  not  lose  our  impres- 
sion of  the  wonderful  beauty  of  the  extensive  meadows,  and  the  indescribable  charms  of 
the  neighboring  and  overshadowing  hills.  Had  we  time  we  would  be  glad  to  linger  for 
a  few  hours  in  the  ancient  town  of  Windsor,  settled  as  early  as  thirteen  years  after  the 
landing  of  the  Pilgrims  at  Plymouth,  and  the  birthplace  of  those  distinguished  men  so 
much  honored  in  the  times  in  which  they  lived — Governor  Roger  Wolcott  and  Oliver 
Ellsworth,  LL.  D.,  Chief-Justice  of  the  United  States.  We  must  pause  for  a  few 
moments  at  Springfield,  one  of  the  busiest,  most  thriving  of  all  the  interior  cities  of  the 
old  Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts,  Let  us  ascend  the  cupola  which  crowns  one  of 
the  United  States  buildings,  on  Arsenal  Hill,  and  survey  the  scene,  and  acknowledge 
that  the  panorama  on  which  the  eye  rests  deserves  all  the  commendation  that  has  been 
given  it.  Rich  alluvial  meadows  stretch  far  away  in  the  distance  along  the  river,  rising 
gradually  to  quite  an  elevation,  and  terminating  in  a  plain  reaching  several  miles  east. 
Lofty  hills  rear  their  heads  in  all  directions,  clothed  in  the  summer  with  the  richest  ver- 
dure. Villages  and  farm-houses  everywhere  meet  the  eye,  while  the  busy  city  is  spread 
out  like  a  map  at  our  feet.  An  incessant  noise  from  the  rolling  wheels  of  long  trains 
of  cars,  converging  toward  or  radiating  from  the  spacious  railroad  station,  falls  upon  our 
ear,  while  the  smoke  that  ascends  from  the  factories  without  number  tells  us  of  an 
activity-  which  tasks  the  brain  and  the  physical  energies  of  many  a  skilful  mechanic. 
And  this  is  the  Agawam  of  the  olden  times,  when  the  wild  Indian  roamed  over  this 
splendid  country,  whose  name — Springfield — was  given  to  it  as  far  back  as  1640.  It  has, 
like  other  places  to  which  we  have  referred,  its  history  and  its  traditions  of  fearful  suf- 
ferings and   shocking   outrages,  when   the   savages   made   their  attacks    on    its    defenceless 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


75 


inhabitants.  The  days  of  barbarous  warfare  have  long  since  passed  away ;  but  the  citi- 
zens are  not  allowed  to  sever  themselves  from  all  warlike  associations,  inasmuch  as  the 
United  States  has  here  erected  one  of  the  most  extensive  armories  in  the  country.  In- 
deed, if  we  are  not  mistaken,  it  is  the  largest  arsenal  of  construction  in  the  country,  and 
has  always  employed  a   large    force    of  men    in    the    manufacture    and    repair    of  tens    of 


thousands  of  muskets,  keeping 
stored    hundreds    of  thousands 
of    weapons     of    warfare,    if     any    emergency 
should    arise    calling    for   their    use.      These    ar- 
senal-buildings   have    once    been    assaulted.      In 
1786,  during  the  insurrection  in   Massachusetts, 

known  as  the  "  Shays  Rebellion,"  a  vigorous  effort  was  put  forth  to  get  possession  of 
the  United  States  Arsenal.  At  the  head  of  eleven  hundred  men,  Shays  marched  toward 
it,  intending  to  carry  it  by  assault.  The  officer  in  command  of  the  defensive  force — 
General  Shepard — warned  the  assailants  of  the  danger  to  which  they  exposed  themselves, 
but,  his  warnings  not  being  heeded,  he  fired  upon  the  attacking  party,  killing  three  of 
their  number  and  wounding  one,  when  the  assailants  fled  in  all  haste  from  the   scene  of 


Mount    Holyoke. 


76 


PIC  TURESQ  UE    A M ERICA. 


action.       Springfield    is     emphatically     a 
government    city,  its    prosperity    depend- 
ing   largely    on    the    patronage    derived 
from    the    special    department    of 
mechanical  labor  in  which  for  so 
many  years  it   has   been    engaged. 
In  many  respects  it  is  by  far  the 
most    thriving    city  on    the    Con- 
necticut  River 

Leaving  Springfield,  we  pass 


The  Connecticut  Valley  from  Mount  Holyoke. 


rapidly    over    the 
level     lands     on     the 
river,    catching    ghmpses 
at    every  turn    of  scenes  of 
';      "  singular     natural     beauty,    and 

observing  the  improvements  every- 
where  made  by   man,   pressing   into 
service  the  immense  water-power  which 
he    finds    so   useful    as    the    propeller    of 
the    vast    machinery    here     set     in    motion. 
Chicopee,  and    especially  Holyoke,  will  not 


fail    to    attract    the    attention    of   the  tourist,    if.    with    his    love    of    Nature,  he  combines 
an  interest  in  works  which  give  scope    to    human  industry,  and  minister   to   the    comfort 


THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


77 


and  add  to  the  luxuries  of  life.  The  scenery  along  the  river,  if  possible,  grows  more 
charming  as  we  advance.  The  hills  are  nearer  to  the  river,  and  begin  to  assume  the 
name    of  mountains.      We    have    reached  Northampton,  in  all  respects    one    of  the  most 


4te^' 


^J^h 


The   Oxbow — View   from    Mount    Holyoke. 

beautiful  villages  in  this  or  in  any 

other    land,   situated    on    the    west 

side   of  the  Connecticut,  on  rising 

ground,   about    a    mile    from    the    river,  between  which 

and    the    town    lie    some    of   the    fairest    meadow-lands 

in    the    world,  covering    an    area    of   between    three    thousand    and    four   thousand    acres. 

Like  Hartford,  the  town  is  somewhat  irregularly  laid  out,  deriving  from  this  circumstance 

what  to  many  eyes  is  a  great  charm — the  charm  of  diversity.     It  abounds  in    shade-trees. 


78 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Mount    Tom    from    Oxbow. 


the  venerable  appearance  of  which  gives  evidence  of  their  great  age.  Few  places  of  its 
size  can  boast  of  a  larger  number  of  elegant  mansions  and  villas.  Many  persons  of 
intellectual  culture  and  taste  have  made  their  homes  here,  amid  the  charmmg  scenery  of 
the  place,  that  they  may  enjoy  the  many  social  and  intellectual  privileges  which  the 
village  affords. 

We  will  cross  the  river  and  take  our  stand  by  the  side  of  the  doubtless  enthusias- 
tic gentleman  whom  our  artist  has  described  as  standing  near  the  edge  of  a  precipitous 
cliff  on  Mount  Holyoke.  The  imagination  can  easily  picture  the  exceeding  beauty  of 
the  scene.  The  sketch  shows  to  us  the  river  winding  through  the  meadow-lands,  which,  it 
needs  no  words  to  tell  us,  are  of  surpassing  fertility.  Changing  our  position,  we  are  at 
the  Mountain  House,  so  distinctly  seen  in  the  next  picture.  Here  we  are,  nearly  a 
thousand  feet  above  the  plain  below,  spreading  far  away  both  north  and  south.  From 
this  elevated  point  let  us  look  about  us.  We  quote  from  one  who  writes  enthusiastically 
of  this  lovely  scenery :  "  On  the  west,  and  a  little  elevated  above  the  general  level,  the 
eye  turns  with  delight  to  the  populous  village  of  Northampton,  exhibiting  in  its  public 
edifices  and  private  dwellings  an  unusual  degree  of  neatness  and  elegance.  A  little  more 
to  the  right,  the  quiet  and  substantial  villages  of   Hadley  and  Hatfield  ;    and  still    farther 


THE     VALLEY    OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


79 


east,  and  more  distant,  Amherst,  with  its  college,  observatory,  cabinet,  and  academy, 
on  a  commanding  eminence,  form  pleasant  resting-places  for  the  eye.  Facing  the  south- 
west, the  observer  has  before  him,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  the  ridge  called 
Mount  Tom,  rising  one  or  two  hundred  feet  higher  than  Holyoke,  and  dividing  the 
valley  of  the  Connecticut  longitudinally.  The  western  branch  of  this  valley  is  bounded 
on  the  west  by  the  Hoosic  range  of  mountains,  which,  as  seen  from  Holyoke,  rises 
ridge  above  ridge  for  more  than  twenty  miles,  checkered  with  cultivated  fields  and 
forests,  and  not  unfrequently  enlivened  by  villages  and  church-spires.  In  the  northwest, 
Graylock  may  be  seen  peering  above  the  Hoosic;  and,  still  farther  north,  several  of  the 
Green  Mountains,  in  Vermont,  shoot  up  beyond  the  region  of  the  clouds  in  imposing 
grandeur.  A  little  to  the  south  of  west,  the  beautiful  outline  of  Mount  Everett  is  often 
visible.  Nearer  at  hand,  and  in  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut,  the  insulated  Sugar-Loaf 
and  Mount  Toby  present  their  fantastic  outlines,  while,  far  in  the  northeast,  ascends  in 
dim  and  misty  grandeur  the  cloud-capped  Monadnoc." 

The  artist  has  given  us  another  view  of  the  valley  from  Mount  Holyoke,  showing  a 
bend  of  the  river  which,  from  its  peculiar  shape,  is  known  as  the  Oxbow.  We  have  the 
same  charming  scene  of  meadow  and  winding  river  which  we  had  in  the  other  picture. 
From  Oxbow,  also,  we  have  a  view  of  Mount  Tom,  the  twin-brother,  if  we  may  be 
permitted  to  call  it,  of  Mount  Holyoke — not  as  much  visited  as  the  latter,  but  well 
worth  climbing,  and  not  disappointing  the  highly-raised  anticipations  of  the  tourist.     The 


Mount    Holyoke    from    Tom's    Station. 


8o 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


village  of   South  Hadley  lies  on  the  east  side  of  Mount  Tom.     This  place  has  almost   a 
national  reputation  as  being  the  seat  of  the  famous   Mount    Holyoke    Female    Seminary. 


Titan's    Pier,    Mount    Holyoke. 


There  are  not    a    few  spots    in    its    neighborhood    from  which    a    spectator  will   get   most 
picturesque  views    of  the    surrounding   country.      The    other  views  which  we    have    intro- 


H 


^ 


■« 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    CONNECTICUT 


8i 


Northampton    Meadows. 


duced  will  prove  that  an  artist  will  find  in  all  this  region  abundant  opportunities  for  the 
exercise  of  his  skill,  and  that  the  man  of  taste  may  wander  wherever  his  inclinations  may 
direct,  and  be  sure  of  finding  enough  to  gratify  his  most  ardent  love  of  Nature. 

South  Hadley  bears  off  the  palm  of  being,  in  many  respects,  the  most  beautiful 
village  on  the  Connecticut.  Let  the  tourist  take  his  stand  on  the  bank  of  the  river, 
and  look  toward  the  northwest.  Holyoke  and  Tom  rise  with  boldness  from  the  valley, 
standing  on  either  side  of  the  river  like  watch-towers,  from  whose  lofty  summits  the  ob- 
server may  look  out  upon  some  of  the  most  charming  scenery  in  the  world.  Through 
the  opening  made  between  these  twin-mountains  one  can  see  two  or  three  miles  up  the 
river,  in  which  will  be  noticed  one  or  two  islands,  looking  peaceful  enough  to  make 
another  paradise  on  earth.      Scattered    over    the    meadows    are    the    fine    old    trees  whose 


82 


82 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


summer  shadows  are  so  inviting,  through  whose  foliage  may  be  seen  the  more  promi- 
nent buildings  of  Northampton.  Directly  above  the  town  the  Connecticut,  changing 
somewhat  its  usual  course,  turns  northwest.  Making  a  bend  to  the  south  again,  it  moves 
on  for  a  little  distance,  and  then  turns  toward  the  east.  In  these  winding  movements, 
of  nearly  five  miles  in  extent,  it  has  enclosed,  except  on  the  eastern  side,  an  interval  of 
singular  beauty,  containing  some  three  or  four  thousand  acres.  On  the  isthmus  of  this 
peninsula  is  the  principal  street  of  the  village,  not  surpassed  in  loveliness  by  any  street 
in  the  whole  country.     It  is  nearly  level,  is  sixteen  rods  in  breadth,  and  lined  with  trees, 

whose  verdure  in  summer  is  rich  be- 
yond conception.  South  Hadley  is  fa- 
mous  as   having  been  the  residence  of 


Table-Rock,  Sugar  Loaf  Mountain 

Whalley  and  Goffe,  two  of  the  regi- 
cides of  Charles  I.,  they  having  sat  in 
the    court    which    tried    the    monarch, 

and  signed  the  warrant  for  his  execution.  They  succeeded  in  escaping  from  England 
when  their  lives  were  in  great  peril,  and,  in  1664,  they  came  to  South  Hadley.  It  is 
said  that  "  when  the  house  which  they  occupied  was  pulled  down  the  bones  of  Whalley 
were  found  buried  just  without  the  cellar-wall,  in  a  kind  of  tomb  formed  of  mason- 
work,  and  covered  with  flags  of  hewn  stone."  Not  long  after  the  death  of  Whalley,  his 
companion,  Goffe,  left  Hadley,  and  spent  the  closing  days  of  his  life  with  a  son  of  his 
companion  in  exile  in   Rhode  Island. 

We  should  be  glad  to  linger  about  these  delightful  regions  of  the  Connecticut  Val- 


THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    CONNECTLCUT. 


83 


ley.  In  no  direction  would  it  be  possible  for  us  to  move  without  finding  something- 
most  attractive  to  the  eye,  and  pleasing  to  a  cultivated  taste.  Thus,  a  ride  of  not  far 
from  seven  miles  east  of  the  river,  would  bring  us  to  Amherst,  the  seat  of  Amherst 
College,  founded  in  1821,  and  one  of  the  most  flourishing  literary  institutions  in  Massa- 
chusetts, many  of  whose  officers  have  stood  in  the  front  rank  of  the  educators  of  the 
United  States.  It  may  be  questioned,  indeed,  if,  in  extent  and  variety  of  knowledge  in 
the   sciences    of  geology    and    mineralogy,  any  man    in    this    country  could    be    compared 


Sugar-Loaf   Mountain    from    Sunderland. 


with  Professor  Hitchcock  when  he  was  at  the  height  of  his  professional  career.  But  we 
must  resist  the  temptation  which  binds  us  to  spots  so  full  of  attraction  and  interest,  and 
move  on  our  "winding  way"  up  the  river.  We  pass  Hatfield  and  Whately,  without 
special  examination,  for  want  of  time.  In  the  distance  rises  a  conical  peak  of  red  sand- 
stone, reaching  an  elevation  of  five  hundred  feet  from  the  plain.  This  is  Sugar-Loaf 
Mountain,  in  South  Deerfield,  of  which  we  have  two  views  from  the  pencil  of  our  artist, 
and  both  of  them  will  repay  examination.  Although  seemingly  inaccessible,  Sugar-Loaf 
Mountain  may  be    ascended  without    serious    difficulty  on    foot ;    and    the    tourist  will    be 


84 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


amply  rewarded  for  the  fa- 
tigue of  the  ascent  when  he 
reaches  the  summit.  At  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  the 
attention  of  the  observer 
will  be  arrested  by  a  monu- 
ment erected  there  to  com- 
memorate an  event  which 
took  place  in  1675.  It  was 
in  the  time  of  King  Philip's 
War,  when  Captain  Lathrop 
was  enticed  into  an  ambush 
by  the  Indians  with  a  com- 
pany of  "eighty  young  men, 
the  very  flower  of  Essex 
County,"  and  nearly  all  of 
them  killed.  This  whole  re- 
gion was  once  the  scene  of 
frightful  disaster,  when  the 
savages  with  relentless  fury 
attacked  the  feeble  settle- 
ments, and  many  fell  victims 
to.  their  arrows  and  toma- 
hawks. Rising  some  seven 
hundred  feet  above  the  plain 
on  which  the  village  of 
Deerfield  stands,  is  Deerfield 
Mountain.  Standing  on  the 
western  verge  of  this  moun- 
tain, one  gets  charming  views 
of  the  surrounding  country. 
Deerfield  River,  after  passing 
over  a  country  fifty  miles  in 
extent,  discharges  its  waters 
into  the  Connecticut,  not  far 
from  the  spot  in  which  the 
observer  stands.  The  mead- 
ows in  this  neighborhood  are 
especially  worthy  of  note,  as 


86 


PIC  TURESO  UE    A  ME  RICA . 


being  among  the  most  picturesque  on  the  river.  Other  elevations,  such  as  Mount  Toby 
and  Mount  Warner,  are  worth  ascending,  and  from  their  summits  may  be  obtained  views, 
each  one  of  which  will  have  some  peculiar  charm  distinguishing  it  from  all  other  views. 
We  have  reached  Greenfield,  which  combines  the  activity  of  a  manufacturing  with 
the  quiet  of  a  rural  village  of  New  England.  The  two  rivers  which  pass  through  the 
place — Fall  River  and  Green  River — furnish  an  excellent  water-power,  which  has  not  been 
suffered  to  lie  unimproved.  The  beautiful  elm-shaded  streets,  and  the  neat,  and,  in  many 
cases,  elegant  and  tasteful  dwellings,  give  us  an  illustration  of  one  of  the  better  class  of 
New-England  villages.     The  artist    has    given  us  a  sketch   of  the  valley  of  the    Connecti- 


■  .^wM^   '''^■■'- 


Brattleboro. 


cut  as  seen  from  Rocky  Mountain  in  Greenfield.  What  images  of  summer  repose  are 
awakened  in  the  mind  as  we  gaze  upon  the  scene  on  which  the  eye  rests !  We  cannot 
help  thinking  of  the.  changes  through  which  all  this  region  has  passed  since  the  white 
man  first  set  his  foot  here.  We  cease  to  wonder  at  the  fierce  struggles  of  the  red-man, 
who  saw  himself  driven  out  of  a  heritage  so  fair  and  beautiful,  to  exterminate  a  race  of 
beings  who  had  come  hither  from  far  across  the  waters  to  set  up  their  new  homes,  and 
make  this  charming  valley  the  scene  of  their  industry,  and  gather  here  the  reward  of 
their  toil.  We  see  before  us  a  region,  the  capabilities  of  which  are  far  from  having  been 
fully  developed,  where  future  generations  are  to  live  from  the  products    of  its   fertile   soil 


THE     VALLEY   OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


87 


and  its  busy  manufactures.  A  single  glance  at  the  "  iron  horse,"  dashing  across  the 
bridge  which  spans  the  Connecticut,  sets  in  motion  a  train  of  thought  as  swift  as  the 
locomotive  which  drags  behind  itself  the  cars  belonging  to  its  train.  How  much 
has  the  railroad  done — how  much  is  it  still  to  do  in  developing  the  resources  of  all 
this  valley,  opening  a  mart  for  its  agricultural  products,  and  the  manufactories,  whose 
wheels  are  run  by  the  waters  which  flow  down  these  descents !  Looking  back  to  an  age 
lying    far   beyond   that    of   the    settlement    of  the  white    man,  we    come    to    a    geological 

period   when   this  whole   country    presented 
-     ,    i^     _  a    scene    far    different    from    the     one    on 

which    the    eye    now    rests ;    where — as'   the 
/^       je         researches  of  such  men  as  Professor  Hitch- 


Whetstone    Brook,   Brattleboro. 

cock  bring  to  our  knowledge — a  race  of 
animals,  now  extinct,  left  the  imprint  of 
its  footsteps  in  soil  which,  becoming  pet- 
rified, has    borne  down  to  our  vision    the 

marks  of  the  huge  creatures  once  roaming  over  these  lands.  Casting  our  thoughts 
forward,  we  see  this  valley  dotted  everywhere  with  villages  and  hamlets,  in  which  are 
gathered  a  population  far  outnumbering  that  which  now  dwells  here,  whose  homes  will 
be  abodes  of  virtue  and  intelligence.  And  if  natural  scenery  has  aught  to  do  in  develop- 
ing the  love  of  the  beautiful,  in  refining  the  taste,  and  in  cultivating  the  imagination, 
we  may  justly  expect  to  find  here  a  cultured  people,  with  large  brains  and  warm  hearts, 
who  will  be  among  the  best  citizens  of  that  vast  domain  which  we  delight  to  call  our 
own,  our  dear  country. 


88  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

But  we  can  stay  no  longer  on  this  Greenfield  eminence  to  indulge  in  these  reveries. 
We  descend,  therefore,  and  keep  on,  in  our  northerly  course,  .passing  through  Beraard- 
ston,  and  coming  to  South  Vernon,  from  which  we  will  take  the  few  miles'  ride  required 
to  bring  us  to  that  beautiful  New-Hampshire  village — Keene.  We  shall  be  particu- 
larly struck  with  the  length  and  width  of  its  streets.  The  principal  street,  which  is  a 
mile  long,  is  an  almost  perfect  level,  and  is  throughout  its  entire  length  ornamented 
with  what  adds  so  much  to  the  charm  of  our  New-England  villages — the  fine  old  trees. 
Blessed  be  the  memory  of  the  fathers,  in  that  they  had  the  good  taste  to  plant  these 
trees,  under  whose  grateful  shades  their  posterity  might  linger,  and  whose  green  foliage 
might  add  so  much  to  the  beauty  of  the  homes  which  they  were  rearing,  not  for  them- 
selves only,  but  for  their  children  who  should  come  after  them.  Returning  from  our 
short  circuit,  it  does  not  take  us  long  to  reach  Brattleboro.  We  are  now  getting  into  a 
more  rugged  portion  of  the  country.  We  crossed  the  boundary-line  of  Massachusetts  at 
Vernon,  and  are  now  in  Vermont.  Brattleboro  has  the  well-deserved  reputation  of  being 
among  the  most  beautiful  sites  on  the  Connecticut.  As  a  sanitarium,  it  is  in  some  re- 
spects preeminent,  and  for  many  years  has  been  resorted  to  by  persons  in  search  of 
health.  The  Asylum  for  the  Insane,  long  regarded  as  one  of  the  best  institutions  of  its 
kind  in  the  country,  is  located  in  this  place.  Brattleboro  has  also  several  large  and 
well-conducted  water-cure  establishments.  The  water  here  is  said  to  be  of  remarkable 
purity,  issuing  cool  and  most  refreshing  from  the  hill-sides.  The  fine,  invigorating  air, 
and  the  romantic  scenery  which  in  all  directions  meets  the  eye,  make  this  village  one  to 
which  invalids  love  to  resort.  We  give  a  representation  of  Mount  Chesterfield,  which 
presents  a  singularly  regular  and  unbroken  appearance.  One  is  almost  tempted  to  think 
that  good  old  Izaak  Walton  has  come  back  from  the  other  world  to  enjoy  in  this 
enchanting  region  the  piscatorial  pleasures  in  which  he  took  so  much  delight  when  he 
was  an  inhabitant  of  our  earth.  Something  more  than  "  glorious  nibbles "  we  will  fain 
hope  that  he  gets,  and  that  a  basket  of  fat,  toothsome  trout,  weighing  at  least  a  pound 
each,  will  reward  him  for  the  tramp  he  has  taken  from  his  home  to  catch  them. 

Our  next  stage  is  twenty-four  miles,  bringing  us  to  the  well-known  Bellows  Falls. 
In  passing  over  this  stage  in  our  journey  we  have  stopped  for  a  few  moments  at  Dum- 
merston,  one  of  the  oldest  towns  in  the  State,  watered  by  West  River  and  several 
small  streams,  useful  as  water-power.  Near  the  centre  of  the  town  is  what  is  called 
Black  Mountain,  an  immense  body  of  granite,  through  which  passes  a  range  of  argilla- 
ceous slate.  Our  artist  has  given  us  a  sketch  of  an  old  mill  in  Putney,  a  few  miles 
north  of  Dummerston.  This  village  is  beautifully  situated  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Con- 
necticut River,  and  embraces  within  its  limits  an  extensive  tract  of  river-level,  known 
as  the  Great  Meadows.  Sackett's  Brook  is  a  considerable  stream,  which  within  a  dis- 
tance of  one  hundred  rods  falls  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet.  On  the  breaking  out 
of   the    French    War,    in    1 744,    a   settlement    was    begun    and    a    fort    erected    on    Great 


THE     VALLEY    OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


89 


Meadows.  Our  route  has  taken  us  through  West- 
minster, whose  soil  has  made  it  a  particularly  fine 
agricultural  region.  A  semicircle  of  hills  encloses 
the   place,  touching   the   river  two  miles  above   and 


below  the  town.     While  this 
has  the  effect  to  add  to  the 
natural  beauty  of  the  place, 
it  has  been  the  occasion  of 
its    being    deprived    of   the 
water-power    which    comes    from    the 
hills    in    so    many    places    along    the 
Connecticut,    the    streams     being     di- 
verted   away  from    the  village    instead 
of  flowing  through  it. 

Bellows    Falls,  of  which    we    have 

three  picturesque  views,  is  well  known 

as  the  stopping-place   of  the    railways, 

and,  to    some    extent,  a    place    of  summer  resort.      The  falls,  which  give  the  chief  charm 

to  the  place,  are  a  succession  of  rapids  in  the  Connecticut.     These  rapids  extend  not  far 

from  a  mile  along  the   base    of  a  high    and    precipitous    hill,  a   partial  view  of  which  we 


Old    Mill,   Putney. 


90 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


have  in  one  of  the  sketches, 
which  bears  the  name  of 
Fall  Mountain.  Standing 
on  the  bridge  which  crosses 
the  river,  one  looks  down 
into  the  foaming  flood  be- 
low. The  gorge  at  this 
point  is  so  narrow  that  it 
seems  as  if  one  could  almost 
leap  over  it.  Through  this 
chasm  the  water  dashes 
wildly,  striking  with  prodi- 
gious force  on  the  rocks 
below,  and  by  the  reaction 
is  driven  back  for  quite  a 
space  upon  itself  In  a  dis- 
tance of  half  a  mile  the 
water  descends  about  fifty 
feet.  Apart  from  the  falls 
there  will  not  be  much  to 
detain  the  tourist  in  this 
spot.  There  are  several 
pleasant  villages  in  the  vi- 
cinity to  which  agreeable 
excursions  may  be  made. 

Keeping  on  in  our 
northerly  course,  we  come 
to  Charlestown.  At  this 
point  there  are  in  the  Con- 
necticut River  three  beauti- 
ful islands,  the  largest — Sart- 
well's  Island  —  having  an 
area  of  ten  acres,  and  well 
cultivated.  The  other  two 
have  not  far  from  six  acres 
each  in  them.  Among  the 
first  settlers  of  this  place 
was  Captain  Phinehas  Ste- 
vens.     When    the    fort,  of 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    CONNECTICUT.  91 

which  he  was  the  commandant,  was  attacked  by  the  French  and  Indians  in  1747,  he 
made  so  gallant  a  defence  that  he  was  presented  by  Sir  Charles  Knowles  with  a  costly 
sword,  in  token  of  his  appreciation  of  the  bravery  of  the  heroic  captain.  In  memory 
of  this  act  of  Sir  Charles,  when,  a  few  years  after,  the  township  was  incorporated,  the 
inhabitants  gave  it  the  name  of  Charlestown. 

No  lover  of  the  picturesque  will  fail  to  see  Claremont,  a  place  watered  by  the  Con- 
necticut and  Sugar  Rivers,  and  having  a  fine,-  undulating  surface,  and  surrounded  by  hills 
with  gentle  acclivities,  from  the  summits  of  which  are  obtained  charming  views  of  the 
surrounding  country.  Beds  of  iron-ore  and  limestone  are  here  found,  which  have  added 
much  to  the  wealth  of  the  inhabitants.  Claremont  took  its  name  from  Claremont  in  Eng- 
land, the  country-seat  of  Lord  Clare,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  governors- 
general  of  the  East  Indies.  From  this  spot  we  get  fine  views  of  Mount  Ascutney,  of 
which  the  accompanying  sketch  gives  us  an  excellent  idea.  This  mountain  is  situated  in 
the  towns  of  Wethersfield  and  Windsor,  and  is  an  immense  mass  of  granite.  It  is  well 
spoken  of  as  "  a  brave  outpost  of  the  coming  Green  Mountains,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
of  the  White  Mountains  on  the  other."  It  is  sometimes  called  the  Three  Brothers, 
from  its  three  peaks,  which  are  so  distinctly  outlined  as  we  look  at  the  mountain  from 
the  point  of  view  which  the  artist  has  selected.  How  extended  and  how  magnificent 
the  view  is  from  its  highest  summit,  which  is  nearly  eighteen  hundred  feet  from  the  bed 
of  the  river,  it  is  not  easy  to  describe. 

Windsor  is  our  next  point  of  interest,  situated  on  the  elevated  bank  of  the  river, 
somewhat  irregularly  built,  but  in  all  respects  one  of  the  most  charming  villages  of  Ver- 
mont. The  number  of  its  elegant  mansions  and  public  buildings  compares  favorably 
with  that  of  almost  any  village  of  its  size  in  the  country.  Its  wide,  shaded  streets  give 
it  a  peculiarly  attractive  appearance,  and  if  one  ascends  the  highlands  in  the  neigh- 
boring town  of  Cornish,  or  climbs  to  the  top  of  Ascutney,  he  will  look  out  upon  a 
scene  which  he  will  not  soon  forget.  The  location  of  Windsor  is  such  that  it  has  be- 
come the  centre  of  trade,  both  for  the  towns  on  the  river  and  for  the  fertile  interior 
country.  Its  men  of  business  have  been  enterprising  and  far-sighted,  and  they  have 
built  up  a  town  which  has  enjoyed,  and  bids  fair  still  to  enjoy,  a  high  degree  of 
prosperity. 

We  have  reached  White-River  Junction,  where  the  White  River  empties  into  the 
Connecticut,  of  which  the  artist  has  given  us  a  view.  It  needs  but  a  glance  to  indicate 
to  us  that  we  are  in  the  midst  of  the  mountains.  We  can  almost  feel  the  invigorating 
breezes  as  they  blow  pure  and  fresh  from  the  "  everlasting  hills ; "  and,  as  we  write  this 
sketch  in  this  hot  July  day,  we  fancy  that  we  feel  all  the  cooler  and  brighter  as  we 
look  upon  the  scene  before  us.  It  is  evident  that  the  artist  has  intended  that  his 
sketch  shall  represent  the  evening  hour.  The  new  moon  hangs  over  the  valley  which 
divides  the  two  mountains  in  the  left  of  the  picture.     The  wind  blows  very  gently  down 


92 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Bellows    Falls. 


the  mountain-gorge,  bending  a  little  to  the  right  the  smoke  which  ascends  from  the 
chimney  of  the  cottage  in  the  rear  of  the  bridge.  The  whole  scene  is  one  of  quiet 
beauty.      Sitting    there    where    our    friend   is — on    the    river's    bank— we    think    we    could 


THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


93 


The   West   Branch   of  Bellows    Falls. 


easily  throw  down  the  burden    of  life's   cares   and  worriments,  and   give    up   ourselves    to 
the  romance  of  the  place  and  the  delicious  musings  of  the  hour. 

From  White-River  Junction  we  go  to   Hanover,  New   Hampshire,  the    great    attrac- 


94 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


tion  of  which  is  Dartmouth  College,  situated  about  half  a  mile  from  the  Connecticut. 
The  buildings  are  grouped  around  a  square,  whose  area  is  twelve  acres,  in  the  centre  of 
the  broad  terrace  upon  which  the  village  has  been  built.  This  institution,  whose  career 
has  been  so  honorable  and  prosperous,  was  chartered  by  a  royal  grant  in  1 769,  and  re- 
ceived its  name  from  William,  Earl  of  Dartmouth.  Its  graduates  have  distinguished 
themselves  in  all  the  walks  of  professional  life.  Any  college  from  which  such  men  as 
Daniel  Webster  and  Rufus  Choate  have  gone  forth,  may  well  pride  itself  on  account  of 
its  sons. 

The  villages   of  Thetford,  Orford,  Bradford,  and  Haverhill,  may  detain  us  for  a    few 


7. 'fl><i<=^"-;~r_-: 


Mount   Ascutney. 


hours.  We  shall  find,  in  all  this  neighborhood,  excellent  farms,  and  a  busy,  industrious 
population.  In  Orford,  limestone  is  found  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain  some  four  hundred 
feet  above  the  Connecticut.  Soapstone  and  granite  abound,  and  some  lead  has  been  dis- 
covered. Bradford  and  Haverhill  were  so  called  because  their  earlier  settlers  came  from 
towns  of  that  name  on  the  Merrimac,  in  Massachusetts.  The  town  of  Newbury  is  delight- 
fully situated  on  the  west  side  of  the  Connecticut  River,  and  comprises  the  tract  to  which 
the  name  of  "  The  Great  Oxbow "  has  been  given.  This  tract,  on  a  bend  of  the  Con- 
necticut River,  is  of  great  extent,  and  is  well  known  on  account  of  its  rare  beauty  and 
the  fertility  of   its  soil.      Here  we  have  one   of  the   most   charming    of  the    many  pictu- 


THE     VALLEY    OF    THE    CONNECTICUT. 


95 


White-River   Junction. 


Moose    Hillock,    from    Newbury    Meadows. 


96 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


resque  scenes  which  our  artist  has  given  us  of  the  Connecticut.  From  the  meadows  of 
Newbury  is  seen  the  elevation  called  Moose  Hillock.  A  few  miles  north  of  Newbury 
we  reach  Wells-River  Junction,  whence  the  traveller,  by  one  line  of  railroad,  goes  to  the 
White  Mountains,  or,  by  another,  proceeds  to  Montreal.  Not  far  from  this  point  the 
waters  of  the  Ammonoosuck  empty  into  the  Connecticut. 

Our  last  sketch  represents  a  scene  in  Barnet,  Vermont,  one  of  the  best  farming 
towns  in  the  State,  and  abounding  in  slate  and  iron-ore.  The  water-power  on  the  Pas- 
sumpsic  and  Stevens  Rivers  is  one  of  the  finest  in  all  this  region.  The  fall  in  Stevens 
River,  of  which  we  have  a  view,  is  one  hundred  feet  in  the  short  distance  of  ten  rods. 
Not  far  from  this  point  the  river  Passumpsic  discharges  its  waters  into  the  Connecticut, 
From  this  point  onward  it  bears  the  character  of  a  mountain-stream.  There  are  several 
pleasant  villages  on  either  side  of  the  river,  as  we  follow  it  up  to  its  very  source  in  the 
northern  part  of  New  Hampshire.  The  lover  of  Nature  may  be  sure  of  finding  abun- 
dant material  to  gratify  his  taste  for  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful  all  through  this  most 
picturesque  region. 


Stevens    Brook,    Barnet. 


I 


Ph 

P 

r-l 

to 


BALTIMORE    AND    ENVIRONS. 


ILLUSTRATED    BY    GRANVILLE   PERKINS. 


WHEN  Captain 
John  Smith 
adventured  upon  the 
wide  waters  of  the 
Chesapeake  Bay  in 
two  frail,  open  boats, 
we  do  not  find  that 
he  explored  the  broad 
estuary  now  known  as 
the  Patapsco  River. 
Beaten  by  storms  and 
driven  astray  by  ad- 
verse winds,  praying 
and  singing  psalms  in 


the  old,  sturdy  Puri- 
tan fashion,  punishing 
rigorously  all  oaths  by 
pouring  a  can  of  cold 
water  down  the  sleeve, 
he  put  back  hurriedly 
to  Jamestown.  On  a 
second  expedition  he 
entered  the  Potomac 
and  the  Patuxent, 
but  went  no  farther. 
Even  when,  in  1634, 
the  Ark  and  the 
Dove,  after  a   stormy 


84 


Washington    Monument. 


98 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


voyage,  landed  the 
Pilgrims  of  Maryland 
at  St.  Clement's  Isle, 
the  Potomac  was  re- 
garded as  the  future 
seat  of  government. 
The  first  of  the  colo- 
nists who,  either  over- 
land through  the  wil- 
derness, or,  as  is  more 
probable,  entering  the 
river  from  the  bay, 
stood  upon  the  fu- 
ture site  of  Baltimore 
town,  is  unknown. 
No  romantic  legends 
attend  the  city's  birth. 
It  is  certain,  however, 
that  it  was  not  until 
some  time  after  1634 
that  the  colonists  ven- 
tured to  leave  the 
older  towns  on  the 
Potomac  and  brave 
the  dangers  supposed 
to  coexist  with  prox- 
imity to  the  warlike 
Susquehannas.  Even 
these  first  settlers  had 
no  forecasting  of  the 
advantages  a  city  at 
the  head  of  such  an 
immense  stretch  of 
inland  water  would 
offer.  Their  only  de- 
sire was  to  be  on 
a  navigable  stream, 
where  ships  could 
anchor     with      safety. 


BALTIMORE    AND    ENVIRONS. 


99 


The  immediate  sur- 
roundings of  this  shel- 
tered cove  on  the  Pa- 
tapsco  were  nevertheless 
such  as  to  render  its 
borders  remarkably  at- 
tractive. The  fresh  nat- 
ural beauties  of  the  land 
which  greeted  and  de- 
lighted those  who  built 
here  upon  the  edge  of 
the  wilderness  are  lost 
to  their  later  descend- 
ants. Jones's  Falls, 
which  is  now  a  great 
and  ever-recurring  nui- 
sance, was  then  a  pure 
and  limpid  forest-stream, 
the  basin  and  the  harbor 
as  quiet  and  peaceful  as 
any  far  island-shore  in 
the  depths  of  ocean. 
The  woods  came  down 
to  the  water's  edge  and 
clothed  the  broken  hills 
that  rise,  interlaced  by 
small  but  rapid  streams 
far  into  the  interior. 
So  even  without  that 
extraordinary  foresight 
of  future  growth  with 
which  some  historians 
would  endow  the  found- 
ers of  the  city,  they  had 
good  and  sufficient  rea- 
sons for  their  choice. 
Here,  then,  in  the  lat- 
ter part  of  the  seven- 
teenth   century,  the  va- 


loo  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

rious  "  points "  and  "  necks "  which  run  out  sharply  into  the  river  were  successively 
patented.  Prosaic  Jonestown  arose,  the  chief  production  of  which,  judging  from  the 
old  maps,  appears  to  have  been  almost  preternaturally  symmetrical  rows  of  flourish- 
ing cabbages.  Huge  hogsheads  of  tobacco,  stoutly  hooped,  and  with  an  axle  driven 
through  the  middle  so  as  to  form  a  huge  roller,  and  drawn  by  horses  driven  by 
negroes,  were  trundled  over  what  are  still  known  as  "  rolling  roads "  to  town ;  flour- 
ishing mills,  tanneries,  and  other  manufacturing  industries,  soon  became  established ;  trade 
with  the  neighboring  States  and  with  the  West  Indies  increased;  and  with  this  pros- 
perity came  the  demand  that  the  name  of  Jonestown  be  discarded,  and  the  cities  east 
and  west  of  the  Falls  be  consolidated  under  a  new  title,  that  of  the  first  proprietary — 
Lord  Baltimore.  A  picture  of  this  worthy  gentleman  exists  in  Washington,  painted  by 
Vandyck.  It  was  bartered  off  by  a  Legislature  of  Maryland  for  a  series  of  portraits  of 
the  early  governors  by  Peale.  This  sponsor  of  the  city  could  not  but  have  been  a  con- 
spicuous figure  at  a  brilliant  court.  His  portrait  is  that  of  a  man  tall  and  finely  formed; 
his  smallclothes  are  of  blue  velvet,  the  coat  embroidered  elaborately,  having  open  sleeves 
lined  with  blue  silk,  and  brocaded  in  the  same  color ;  his  doublet  is  worked  in  gold 
and  colors ;  his  sash  is  of  orange  silk ;  his  breastplate  of  blue  steel,  inlaid ;  and  the 
broad  sash  around  his  waist  shows  above  it  the  hilt  of  a  sword  studded  with  jewels. 
He  wears  the  heavy  powdered  wig  of  his  times,  and  black  shoes  with  box-toes  and 
gold  buckles.  Such,  in  rich  array,  as  bodied  forth  by  the  hand  of  a  master,  is  the  stately 
figure  of  Lord  Baltimore,  the  city's  patron.  There  were  fitness  and  propriety  in  the 
choice  other  than  that  of  historic  gratitude.  Baltimore  was  long  an  English  provincial 
town  in  many  of  its  characteristics.  In  its  society  the  founder  of  Maryland  would  have 
been  at  his  ease.  Gentlemen  of  the  old  school,  its  citizens  danced  their  solemn  minuets 
and  cotillons ;  talked  much,  but  read  little ;  and  were  eminently  sociable,  kind-hearted, 
hospitable,  and  happy  in  the  repose  of  unhurried  lives.  It  was  a  picturesque  day  for  the 
city  when  gallants  wore  the  three-cornered  cocked-hat,  powdered  hair  and  cue ;  coats 
many  -  pocketed,  narrow,  light  -  colored,  and  curiously  embroidered  ;  smallclothes,  striped 
stockings,  and  shoes  with  wide  silver  buckles.  And  then  the  ladies,  witty,  sprightly,  gay 
— the  Carrolls,  the  Catons,  the  Pattersons,  the  Ridgeleys,  and  their  fair  companions. 
From  that  time  to  this  Baltimore  has  never  lost  its  reputation  for  the  beauty  and  at- 
tractiveness of  its  women,  nor  for  the  hospitality  and  cordial,  frank  courtesy  of  the 
homes  they  grace. 

We  find  in  a  scarce  pamphlet  by  a  pleasant  writer,  who  visited  Baltimore  just 
before  the  War  of  1812:  "It  is  computed  that  the  city  under  the  general  name  of 
Baltimore  contains  forty  thousand  inhabitants.  The  people  of  opulence  seem  to  enjoy 
the  good  things,  and  even  the  luxuries  of  life,  with  greater  gout  than  their  neighbors  to 
the  eastward ;  the  savoir  vivre  is  well  understood ;  and  their  markets,  of  course,  are 
yearly  improving  in  almost  every  article  that  adds  to  the  comfort  and  splendor  of  the  table." 


I02 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Market  — now  Balti- 
more— Street  was,  in  the 
time  of  which  we  are 
speaking,  the  favorite  prom- 
enade. Then  the  avenue 
was  resplendent  with 
"  dames  and  damsels  — 
some  with  hooped-skirts ; 
some  in  brocade,  luxuri- 
ously displayed  over  hoops, 
with  comely  bodices  sup- 
ported by  stays,  disclosing 
perilous  waists,  and  with 
sleeves  that  clung  to  the 
arm  as  far  as  the  elbow, 
where  they  were  lost  in 
ruffles  that  stood  off  like 
feathers  on  a  bantam.  And, 
then,  such  faces — so  rosy, 
spirited,  and  sharp  —  with 
the  hair  drawn  over  a  cush- 
ion, tight  enough  to  lift 
the  eyebrows  with  a  slight 
curve,  giving  a  somewhat 
scornful  expression  to  the 
countenance  ;  and  curls 
that  fell  in  cataracts  over 
the  shoulders.  Then  they 
stepped  along  with  a 
mincing  gait,  in  shoes  of 
many  colors,  with  formida- 
ble points  at  the  toes,  and 
high,  tottering  heels,  deli- 
cately cut  in  wood,  and 
in  towering  peaked  hats, 
garnished  with  feathers  that 
swayed  aristocratically  back- 
ward and  forward  at  each 
step,  as  if  they  took  pride 


BALTIMORE    AND    ENVIRONS.  103 

in  the  stately  pace  of  the  wearer."  In  the  muddy  ruts  of  the  unpaved  streets,  great, 
clumsy,  capacious  Conestoga  wagons  rumbled  past,  drawn  by  teams  of  the  finest  draught- 
horses  in  the  country.  They  were  bound  for  the  old  inns,  with  spacious  enclosed  yards 
and  swinging  signs,  a  few  of  which,  peculiarly  English,  and  comically  out  of  place,  still 
refuse  to  be  improved  off  the  city  streets.  At  night  the  oil-lamps  threw  yellow  gleams 
over  the  galloping  gallants  who  came  in  from,  the  family  seats  on  the  neighboring  hills 
to  attend  the  balls  at  the  old  Assembly  Rooms,  still  standing  at  the  corner  of  Holliday 
and  Fayette  Streets. 

The  town  grew  slowly.  For  a  long  time  large  swamps  existed  on  the  low  grounds, 
and  but  few  of  the  streets  ran  down  fairly  to  the  harbor.  Where  is  now  Centre-Market 
Space,  near  the  centre  of  the  city,  one  vast  quagmire  spread  its  uninviting  extent.  As 
the  limits  of  the  town  touched  the  bold  hills  of  Charles  Street,  the  prospect  for  health 
and  comfort  was  better.  When  the. city  had  once  firmly  planted  itself  on  this  plateau,  it 
began  slowly  to  thrust  out  its  streets  into  the  neighboring  country.  Old  wooden  build- 
ings, dozing  in  shady  seclusion  by  the  side  of  some  narrow  lane,  would  find  themselves 
suddenly  in  the  embrace  of  pretentious  brick-and-mortar,  and  there  many  of  them  still 
are  embalmed,  with  steep,  gabled  hip-roofs,  moss-grown  and  bleached. 

While  the  business-life  of  the  city  still  centred  around  the  wharves,  the  fashionable 
quarter  was  constantly  changing.  Starting  along  the  Falls,  it  came  by  the  way  of  Lom- 
bard Street  to  Harrison — now  redolent  of  Jews'  shops,  old  clothes,  and  rusty  iron — to 
Gay.  There  it  remained  stationary  until  it  spread  into  Lexington,  North,  and  Calvert 
Streets,  with  outlying  suburbs  in  Barre,  Conway,  and  Sharp  Streets,  to  the  west  and 
east,  and  Franklin  Street  to  the  north. 

W^hen,  however,  in  181 2,  the  pure  white  shaft  of  the  Washington  Monument  rose 
in  Howard  Park,  it  drew,  like  a  magnet  of  supernatural  proportions,  the  finest  private 
dwellings  around  it  in  four  parallelograms  facing  the  four  grass  plots  that  radiate  from  it. 
The  city  surmounted  at  one  leap  the  steep  depression  of  Centre  Street,  and  occupied  at 
once  the  second  plateau. 

As  was  usual  with  our  forefathers,  when  they  had  any  scheme  of  public  interest  and 
more  than  usual  magnitude  to  manage,  a  lottery  was  the  primary  means  of  raising  funds 
for  the  erection  of  the  monument.  A  lottery,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind,  was  then  a 
perfectly  legitimate  transaction  as  well  as  a  pecuniarily  profitable  one.  Heavy  wagons 
brought  the  now  well-known  Maryland  marble  sixteen  miles  over  a  rough  road  from 
Black  Rock,  on  the  Gunpowder  River. 

The  design  of  the  monument  is  simple  and  effective.  The  pedestal  is  fifty  feet 
square  by  thirty-five  in  height.  Around  this  are  briefly  recorded  the  most  notable  events 
in  the  life  of  Washington.  From  it  rises  majestically,  brilliantly  clear,  polished,  and 
white,  the  round  shaft,  for  one  hundred  and  sixty  feet,  and  crowning  its  capped  dome  is 
the  figure  of  Washington,  of  heroic  size,  holding  in  his  hand  the  scroll  of  his  "  Farewell 


BALTIMORE    AND    ENVIRONS.  105 

Address,"  delivered  in  the  Senate-Chamber  of  the  State-House  at  Annapolis.  A  wind- 
ing, dark,  stone  stairway  leads  to  the  top,  and  the  visitor  is  provided  with  a  lantern 
when  about  to  make  the  long  and  tedious  ascent.  The  view  of  the  city  and  Patapsco 
is  peculiar  and  far-reaching,  but  is  almost  a  bird's-eye  down-look,  and  loses  in  effective- 
ness. Below  is  an  innumerable  multitude,  a  sea,  of  roofs,  from  which,  like  masts,  rise 
the  spires  of  the  churches,  the  pointed  pinnacles  of  public  buildings,  and,  like  huge  iron- 
clads, the  glittering  rounded  metal  roofs  of  the  machine-shops  and  market-halls.  To  the 
north  and  west  the  hills  are  dotted  with  villages  and  isolated  dwellings,  or  are  heavy 
with  forest-growth.  To  the  south  the  Patapsco  stretches  far  away  to  the  bay,  and  on  a 
clear  day  the  glittering  spire  of  the  State-House  at  Annapolis,  forty  miles  distant,  can  be 
seen.  The  configuration  of  the  land-locked  harbor  is  especially  well  defined,  the  Spring 
Gardens  to  the  right,  the  inner  and  outer  harbor  in  the  middle  ground,  the  various 
points  and  necks,  and  the  wharves  and  manufactures  of  Canton  to  the  extreme  left. 

Any  idea  of  Baltimore  would  be  nevertheless  incomplete  without  a  better  water- 
view.  Two  prominent  points  afford  this.  Patterson  Park  is  in  East  Baltimore.  Here 
still  remain  the  earthworks  thrown  up  in  the  War  of  18 12,  when  the  British  landed  at 
North  Point,  twelve  miles  below.  Patterson  Park  was  formerly  known  by  the  less  al- 
literative and  euphonious  name  of  Loudenslager's  Hill.  It  was  a  sop  to  Cerberus,  the 
many-headed  being,  represented  by  the  people  of  East  Baltimore,  or  Old  Town,  or  the 
city  east  of  the  Falls,  who  were  dissatisfied  with  the  appropriation  for  Druid-Hill  Park 
beyond  the  western  limits  of  the  city,  and  some  six  miles  distant.  The  park  is  a  great 
resort  of  the  beaux  and  belles  of  East  Baltimore,  and  many  an  offer  of  a  row  on  its 
lake  of  a  soft  summer's  evening  carries  off  the  lady,  by  no  means  reluctant,  from  the 
side  of  her  more  timid  but  watchful  mother. 

Federal  Hill,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  harbor,  is  better  known  outside  of  the  city 
than  Patterson  Park.  To  many  the  name  will  suggest  interesting  reminiscences  of  the 
war.  The  fortifications  then  constructed  still  remain,  although  guns  from  their  embrasures 
no  longer  threaten  the  city,  and  from  the  flag-staff  and  station  shown  in  the  engraving 
the  flag  of  war  has  been  superseded  by  the  peaceful  emblems  of  commercial  prosperity. 
As  the  signals  go  up  with  their  familiar  letters,  it  is  known  to  the  pilots  that  a  ship  is 
in  the  offing.  A  puff  of  smoke  rises  in  the  harbor,  and,  with  quick,  short  snorts  from 
her  powerful  engine,  a  pert,  saucy  little  tug  goes  out  on  the  chance  of  a  tow. 

Below  Federal  Hill  lies  Fort  McHenry,  and  eight  miles  down  the    river   the    round, 

white,  and  unfinished  walls  of   Fort  Carroll  rise  above  the  water  from  Soller's    Flats.      A 

prisoner    on    board   a    British    man-of-war,    Francis    Scott    Key    here    wrote    the    national 

song  of  the   "  Star-Spangled  Banner."      The  flag  that  then  waved  over  the  fort  is  still   in 

the  possession  of  a  descendant  of   Colonel    Armistead.      The    original    flag  was    thirty-six 

feet  long,  with  fifteen  stripes  and  fifteen  stars.      One  of  the  stars  has    been    cut    out    and 

given  away.     On  one  of  the  white  stripes  is  written  the  name  of  Colonel  George  Armi- 
es 


io6 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Druid-Hill    Park. 


Stead,  who  commanded  the  American  forces  during  the  bombardment.  The  printer-boy 
who  put  the  famous  song  in  type  still — July,  1873 — survives,  and  the  paper  in  which  it 
was  published  yet  exists.  It  has  only  been,  indeed,  within  a  few  years  that  the  British 
ship  Minden,  on  board  of  which  it  was  composed,  was  broken  up  as  beyond  service. 
Her  timbers  were  eagerly  bought  by  Americans  as  relics. 

From  the  fort  the  most  agreeable  method  of  getting  back  to  the  city  is  by  engaging 
one  of  the  half-amphibious  young  watermen  that  ply  between  the  city  and  the  opposite 
shore.  By  this  means  the  wide,  sweeping  front  of  the  harbor  is  seen.  The  water-line  is 
exceedingly  irregular,  and  the  wharves  are  thrust  out  side  by  side  like  the  projecting  cogs 
of  some  vast  wheel.  Many  of  these  wharves  are  very  old — as  old  as  the  city  itself,  in  fact. 
They  are  known  by  the  name  of  the  person  who  built  them — as  Bowly's  Wharf,  Spear's 
Wharf,  or  Smith's  Wharf  The  present  trade  of  the  port  is  becoming  too  great  for  their 
capacity.  Larger  facilities  are  slowly  coming  into  use.  At  Locust  Point  the  enterprising 
Baltimore  and  Ohio  Railroad  has  built  an  immense  pier  and  grain-elevator — one  of  the 
finest  in  the  United  States — for  its  vast  business.     Here  the  Bremen  steamers  land   their 


BALTIMORE    AND    ENVIRONS.  107 

freight  and  passengers,  while  the  immigrants  for  the  West  are  taken  at  once  on  board 
the  cars  and  shipped  to  their  destination.  Coming  farther  up  the  river,  all  the  peculiari- 
ties of  the  harbor  can  be  seen.  Behind  us  is  Fort  McHenry ;  to  the  left  is  Federal 
Hill,  with  its  signals  flying ;  to  the  right  is  the  wide  expanse  of  the  river,  the  numerous 
manufacturing  industries  that  crowd  the  shore  of  the  Canton  Company.  In  front  is  a 
confused  and  blended  mass  of  buildings — first,  the  factories  and  warehouses ;  then,  more 
inland,  the  spires  of  churches ;  and  the  outlines,  the  mere  suggestions,  of  private  dwell- 
ings. Covering  the  water,  the  bay  and  its  tributaries  have  sent  up  a  peculiar  class  of 
sailing-craft ;  oyster-pungies  and  the  swift-sailing  market-boats — there  are  no  better  sailers 
anywhere  than  these  low,  rakish  vessels — bay-steamers,  and  the  crowd  of  sail-boats  that 
ply  on  the  Patapsco  and  the  inland  waters  of  Maryland  and  Virginia ;  the  ocean-steam- 
ships and  the  South-American  traders,  whose  battered  sides  and  dingy  sails  bear  witness 
to  a  long  voyage ;  and  ships  that  come  from  ports  along  the  Atlantic  coast  from  Maine 
to  Florida. 

So  deep  is  the  indentation  of  the  harbor,  from  Light  Street  to  the  Maryland  In- 
stitute, six  squares  distant,  that  the  boats  run  up  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the 
centre  of  the  city.  The  regular  landing-place  is  near  the  Institute,  and  a  walk  up 
Lombard  Street  opens  the  vista  of  Exchange  Place  and  the  Custom-House.  This  may 
be  called  the  commercial  centre  of  Baltimore.  To  be  on  Exchange  Place  is  to  be,  in 
the  majority  of  cases,  a  merchant  of  standing  and  credit.  The  Custom-House  cost  a 
large  amount  of  money,  is  imposing,  and  worth  a  glance. 

Passing  out  of  Exchange  Place  and  through  South  Street — devoted  to  brokers, 
bankers,  and  insurance  agents — into  Baltimore  Street,  and  in  one  short  square  the  rest- 
less stream  of  greatest  travel  is  met.  More  persons  pass  the  corner  of  Baltimore  and 
Calvert  Streets  in  the  course  of  the  day  than  over  any  other  spot  in  the  city.  Near  here 
are  the  largest  hotels,  and  seen  in  the  perspective  of  the  sketch  is  the  Battle  Monu- 
ment, erected  to  those  who  fell  in  the  War  of  181 2.  To  the  left  is  Barnum's,  of  gas- 
tronomic fame,  where  guests  are  supposed,  from  the  city's  special  celebrity,  to  dine  day 
in  and  day  out  on  turtle  and  terrapin,  Chesapeake  oysters,  and  soft-crabs. 

Here,  also,  the  hackman  hovers.  It  is  a  curious  custom,  dating  from  the  first  ordi- 
nances of  the  city,  that  certain  hack-stands  are  established.  It  has  become  so  much  a 
right,  by  use  from  time  immemorial,  that,  although  the  hacks  standing  around  Battle 
Monument  mar  the  appearance  of  the  square,  the  privilege  has  never  been  interfered 
with  by  the  authorities.  If  accosted,  as  will  inevitably  be  the  case,  if  the  quick-trained 
eye  of  the  hackman  discovers  a  stranger,  with  the  offer  of  a  conveyance,  which  the 
world  over  invariably  follows  such  recognition,  let  it  be  remembered  that  Druid-Hill 
Park  is  too  distant  for  the  most  vigorous  pedestrian,  but  is  a  pleasure-ground  of  which 
the  citizens  are  justly  proud,  and  one  by  no  means  to  be  neglected  by  the  visitor. 

In  the  year  1858  old  Lloyd  Rogers  was  in    secure  possession    of  an  ancestral    estate 


io8 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


on  the  northern  suburbs  of  the  city.  It  had  been  in  the  family  since  the  Revolution, 
and  the  first  owner,  an  officer  in  the  Revolutionary  Army,  was  a  man  of  taste.  Some 
recollection  of  the  parks  and  lawns,  the  stately  trees  and  wide  avenues  of  English  coun- 
try-seats led  him  to  lay  out  his  grounds  with  admirable  judgment.  So  year  after  year 
the  rugged,  gnarled  oaks,  the  symmetrical  chestnuts,  the  straight  and  well-massed  hickories, 
and  the  tall,  dome-like  poplars,  grew  in  shape  and  form  to  please  the  artistic  eye.  Down 
in  the  valleys  and  on  the  hill-slopes  the  untended  forest-growth  covered  the  rich  soil  in 
tangled  luxuriance.  Mr.  Lloyd  Rogers  was  an  old  man  when  he  died,  and  resided 
almost  alone  on    the    place.      Latterly  he    had    given    little    thought    to    its    improvement. 


Hampden    Falls. 


The  family  mansion  was  sadly  in  need  of  repair,  and  the  barns  and  out-buildings  were 
leaky  and  dilapidated.  The  whole  place  had  the  appearance  of  having  been  given  over 
to  neglect  and  decay.  When  the  commissioners  appointed  to  select  a  tract  of  land  to 
form  a  park  for.  the  rapidly-growing  city  offered  what  was  then  a  high  price  for  this 
place,  the  offer  was  accepted.  Public  opinion,  hitherto  divided  as  to  the  proper  location, 
crystallized  at  once  in  favor  of  the  purchase.  So  manifold  were  the  advantages,  so  great 
the  natural  beauties  of  the  estate,  that  dissent  from  its  fitness  was  impossible. 

Druid-Hill  Park  lies  immediately  on  the  northern  suburbs  of  the  city,  and  embraces 
•nearly  seven   hundred    acres    of  well-diversified    surface.     Steep,  wooded    hills   rise   to   two 


BALTIMORE    AND    ENVIRONS. 


109 


hundred  feet  above  tide,  giving  glimpses  of  the  surrounding  country,  and  views  of  the 
city  and  the  river.  Quiet,  sequestered  dells,  and  cool,  shaded  valleys,  watered  by  streams 
and  rejoicing  in  springs  of  the  purest  water;  drives  that  wind  through  meadows  and 
woods ;  bridle-paths  and  foot-ways  that  seldom  leave  the  welcome  shadow  of  the  trees, 
render  the  park  one  of  great  rural  beauty  and  sylvan  seclusion.  It  is  indeed  not  a 
made  show-ground,  but  a  park  with  all  a  park's  natural  attractiveness  of  wood  and  water, 
grassy  lawns,  with  branching  shade-trees  and  avenues  that  are  lost  in  forest-dei)ths.  All  the 
architectural  ornamentation  is  brought  together  around  the  central  point — the  old  family 
mansion,  now  restored  and  enlarged.     This  is  the  favorite  place  of  meeting  of  those  who 


Jones's    Falls. 


ride  or  drive  from  the  city.  About  twilight  of  the  evenings  of  early  summer  or  autumn 
the  scene  is  at  its  brightest,  and  horses  and  carriages,  carrying  much  of  the  beauty  and 
wealth  of  Baltimore,  shift  and  change  with  incessant  motion.  The  favorite  drive  is  around 
by  Woodberry,  a  sturdy  little  towm  of  recent  growth,  and  Prospect  Hill,  and  back  by  the 
storage-reservoir  of  Druid  Lake.  On  the  approach  to  the  white  tower  at  the  head  of  this 
lake,  the  upper  part  of  the  city  gradually  comes  into  view.  To  the  right  is  Druid  Lake, 
lying  too  low  to  be  much  affected  by  the  prevailing  winds,  but  stirring  and  simmering  in 
its  restless  motion,  glassy  and  reflective,  shedding  the  light  as  a  mirror  set  in  rock.  To 
the  left  runs  the  Northern  Central  Railroad  around  an  abrupt  curve.      The  foreground  is 


no 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


cut  up  by  deep,  gravelly  ravines;  the  eminence  on  which  stands  the  Mount-Royal  Reser- 
voir ;  and,  immediately  in  front  of  the  distant  suburbs,  the  depression  of  North  Boundary 
Avenue.  The  town  beyond  is  fringed  by  the  outlying'  spires  of  the  churches  upon  the 
northern  suburbs ;  for  this  northwest  section  is  a  perfect  nest  of  churches.  They  emigrate 
here    by   twos   and    threes    from    Old    Town,  or    East    Baltimore,  drawn    by  the  constant 


Mill  on  Jones's   Falls. 


migration  of  the  members  of  their  congregations  to  the  north  and  westward.  It  is  only 
a  small  segment  of  Baltimore  that  is  here  seen,  although  the  distant  view  of  the  river  is 
very  extended.  In  this  direction  the  town  is  increasing  most  rapidly,  and,  like  some  huge 
dragon,  eating  away  the  green  fields  of  the  country.  Before  these  words  are  many  years 
old  the  streets,  the  dwellings,  all    the    unpicturesqueness    of  lamp    and    telegraph   pole,  of 


BALTIMORE    AND    ENVIRONS. 


Ill 


curb-stone   and   gutter,  \vi 
be  up  to  the  limits  of  the  _  _  _ 

embankment     upon    which  ^- 

we  are  standing.  -^i 

From  here  one  of  the 
pecuhar  beauties  of  the  vi- 
cinity of  Baltimore  will  be  remarked — 
the  rolling,  elevated,  rounded  hills  that 
nearly  environ  it.  The  chain  of  lakes 
and  reservoirs,  in  which  Druid  Lake  is 
but  a  link,  and  which  supplies  the  city 
with    pure  water,  extends    through    one 

of  the  most  beautiful  portions  of  this  broken  country.  Druid  Lake  itself  is  but  a 
storage-lake,  with  the  capacity  to  afford  the  city,  if  needful,  sixty  days'  consumption. 
Nearer  the  city  lies  Mount-Royal  Reservoir,  and,  above,  Hampden  Reservoir.  We  now 
follow  Jones's  Falls,  which  presents  us  with  some  water-views — Hampden  Falls,  and  the 
Cotton  Mills  of   Mount  Vernon — little  sketches  that  are  but  suggestive  types ;   and  then 


Lake    Roland. 


112 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


we  come  to  Lake  Roland,  clasped  in  the  embrace  of  bold  hills,  and  winding,  river-like, 
around  jutting  peninsulas.  It  is  a  charming  scene.  In  the  fresh,  dewy  sparkle  of  early 
morning,  or  in  the  soft  closing-in  of  the  evening  shadows,  it  is  beautiful  in  varying 
moods  as  the  ever-changing,  ever-new  face  of  the  waters  answers  to  the  drifting  clouds ; 
the  heavy  hill  shadows,  the  trees  that  sentinel  its  margin,  or  come  down  a  disorderly, 
irregular  troop  to  mirror  themselves  in  its  bosom ;  or  to  the  fitful  caprices  of  Nature 
around,  now  bright  with  glint  and  gleam  of  sun  or  stars  ;  now  sombre  and  murky  under 
driving  winds  and  masses  of  low,  drifting  clouds,  pelting  with  the  rain,  as  with  falling 
shot,  the   gray  surface. 

The  lake  is  very  deceptive  as  to  size,  as  only  bits  of  it  can  be  seen  from  any  one 
point.  The  official  measurement  gives  it  seven  miles  in  circumference  and  a  mile  and  a 
half  in  length.  Even  this,  the  fifth  in  the  series,  is  not  the  last  of  the  complicated 
system  by  which  the  Baltimore  Water-works,  costing  over  five  million  dollars,  are  ren- 
dered efficient.  Seven  miles  farther  up,  where  the  Gunpowder  River  cuts  its  way  be- 
tween two  narrow  hills,  is  derived,  by  means  of  expensive  works,  a  supplementary  supply. 


Scene   on    Lake    Roland. 


BALTIMORE    AND    ENVIRONS. 


1X3 


yet  to  become  one  of  the  principal  sources  upon  which  the  city  will  depend,  by  an 
aqueduct  ten  miles  long  Pardon  us  for  being  statistical  for  a  moment,  as  thereby  we 
can    best   show  the    extent    of  the    present  works.      Druid    Lake    has    a    capacity  of  four 


Lake    Roland  Dam. 

hundred  and  twenty  million  gallons ;  Lake  Roland,  three  hundred  and  twenty-five  mill- 
ions;  Hampden  Reservoir,  fifty-two  millions;  Mount-Royal  Reservoir,  thirty-two  mill- 
ions; and  a  new  high-service  reservoir,  twenty-seven  millions.  The  Gunpowder  works, 
when  completed,  will  be  capable  of  supplying  the  city  with  more  than  three  times  the 
quantity  now  given  by  Jones's  Falls  and  Roland's  Run. 


Lake   Roland  above   the   Dam. 


All  the  streams  around  Baltimore  afford  scenes  of  much  quiet  beauty.  Herring 
Run  to  the  east  has  been  honored  by  the  brush  of  more  than  one  artist ;  and  Gwynn's 
Falls,  a  rapid  stream  to    the  west,  presents    many  quaint    old    mills    on    its    banks,  which 

86 


114 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


seem  to  have  fallen  asleep  listening  to  the  ceaseless  monotone  of  the  waters  flowing 
past.  Reminiscences  these,  gabled,  steep-roofed,  weather-worn,  of  the  time  not  long  after 
the  Revolution,  when  Baltimore  was  the  largest  flour-market  in  the  United  States.  The 
Patapsco,  in  what  is  known  as  the  North  Branch,  is  also  a  favorite  sketching-ground. 
With  all  their  beauty  these  streams  are  at  times  terrible  agencies  of  destruction.  Down 
they  come,  bearing  every  thing  before  their  resistless  force,  those  freshets  and  floods  of 
which    the    history  of  the  city  records  many.     At   the    Maryland  Institute   is    a    mark  of 


The    Patapsco   at    Ilchester. 


the  height  of  the  flood  of  1868,  six  feet  from  the  street,  and  the  water  backed  up  to 
within  one  square  of  the  centre  of  the  city.  An  impassable  barrier  was  suddenly  thrust 
between  East  and  West  Baltimore — all  the  bridges  over  the  Falls  were  swept  off^heavy 
stone  mills  went  down  with  a  crash — wooden  buildings  were  undermined,  whirled  round, 
and  carried  away,  and  many  lives  were  lost. 

The  charge  that  Baltimore,  while  an  elevated,  beautiful,  remarkably  clean,  and  unex- 
ceptionally    healthy    city,    possesses    but    few    places    of  striking    interest,    has    been    often 


BALTIMORE    AND    ENVIRONS. 


115 


made.  It  is  unjust  now,  as  the  pencil  of  Mr.  Perkins  has  proved,  and  in  a  few  years  it 
will  be  but  fair  to  presume  that  it  will  cease  to  be  uttered.  In  addition  to  the  objects 
of  aesthetic  or  historic  interest  thought  suitable  in  the  preceding  pages  for  the  purposes 
of  the  artist,  the  Potomac  Tunnel,  of  the  Baltimore  and  Potomac  Railway,  and  the 
Union  Tunnel,  of  the  Canton  Company,  are  surpassed  only  by  the  more  famous  Hoosic, 
and  girdle  the  city  underground  to  the  north  and  east.  By  the  generosity  of  Johns 
Hopkins,  a  university,  complete  in  all  its  departments,  endowed  with  more  than  five  mill- 
ion dollars,  and  attached  to  which  will  be  a  park  of  six  hundred  acres,  has  been  already 
secured.  The  harbor  channel  has  been  deepened,  so  that  the  largest  class  of  vessels  now 
come  up  to  the  wharves ;  and,  before  long,  a  ship-canal  will  be  cut  across  Maryland  and 
Delaware  to  the  ocean,  and  the  voyage  to  Europe  be  shortened  two  days.  From  four 
to  five  million  dollars  are  to  be  spent  on  Jones's  Falls ;  the  stream  will  be  straightened, 
floods  rendered  harmless,  and  what  is  now  an  unsightly  ditch  will  then,  it  is  hoped,  be 
an  ornament  to  the  city.  Within  a  year  the  City  Hall  will  be  completed,  and  be  one 
of  the  finest  municipal  structures  in  the  United  States,  occupying  an  entire  square  and 
facing  four  streets,  with  walls  of  white  Maryland  marble,  and  in  height,  from  the  ground 
to  the  top  of  the  dome,  one  hundred  and  seventy-two  feet. 


Scene  on   the   Patapsco. 


THE    CATSKILLS. 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS     BY     HARRY     FENN. 


Mill  II 


tion 
form 


BOUT  one  hundred  and 
forty    miles     from    the 
sea,  on  the  western  bank  of  the 
Hudson,    the    chain     of    moun- 
tains which,  under  various  names,  stretch- 
es from  the  banks   of  the    St.  Lawrence 
to   Georgia  and  Tennessee,  throws  out  a 
broken  Hnk  toward  the  east.     Clustering 
closely    together,    these    isolated    mountains,    to    which    the 
early    Dutch    settlers    gave    the    name    of    "  Catskills,"    approach 
within    eight    miles    of    the    river,    and,    like    an    advanced    bas- 
of    the    great    rocky    wall,    command    the    valley    for    a    considerable    distance,    and 
one    of  the    most    striking   features    in   the    landscape.      On    the   western    side,  they 


.*r.r  >  ^^  Mil' 


THE    CATSKILLS. 


iij 


slope  gradually  toward  the  central  part  of  the  State  of  New  York,  running  off 
into  spurs  and  ridges  in  every  direction.  On  the  eastern,  however,  they  rise  abruptly 
from  the  valley  to  a  height  of  more  than  four  thousand  feet,  resembling,  when  looked 
at  from  the  river,  a  gigantic  fist  with  the  palm  downward,  the  peaks  representing 
the  knuckles,  and  the  glens  and  cloves  the  spaces  between  them.  Thus  separated  from 
their  kindred,  and  pushed  forward  many  miles  in  advance  of  them,  they  overlook  a  great 
extent  of  country,  affording  a  wider  and  more  varied  view  than  many  a  point  of  far 
greater  elevation.  Indeed,  from  few  places,  even  among  the  Alps  of  Switzerland,  does 
the  traveller  see  beneath  him  a  greater  range  of  hill  and  valley;  and  yet  many  an  Amer- 
ican stands  on  the  summit  of  the  Righi,  rapt  in  admiration  of  the  wonderful  prospect, 
ignorant  that  a  view  nearly  as  extensive,  and  in  many  respects  as  remarkable,  may  be 
found  in  one  of  the  earliest-settled  parts  of  his  own  country !  Nor  are  the  Catskill 
Mountains    famous    only  for  this   celebrated  bird's-eye  view.      They  contain    some    of   the 


View  of  Mountains   from   Creek,   Catskill- Mountain    Road. 


most  picturesque  bits  of  mountain-scenery  in  the  world.  The  beauties  of  the  Clove  and 
the  Falls  of  the  Kauterskill  have  been  immortalized  by  Irving  and  Cooper  and  Bryant, 
passing  into  the  classics  of  American  literature,  and  awakening  in  the  genius  of  Cole  its 
loftiest  inspiration.  After  such  illustrators,  the  task  of  describing  the  charms  of  this 
beautiful  group  of  mountains  would  seem  to  be  as  difficult  as  the  attempt  were  pre- 
sumptuous;  but  a  few  notes  may,  perhaps,  be  useful  in  explanation  of  some  of  the 
sketches  made  by  Mr.  Fenn  in  this  shrine  of  summer  pilgrimage. 

It  was  mid- August  when  we  started  for  the  Catskills.  Though  it  was  early  when 
we  left  New -York  City,  no  air  was  stirring,  and  the  hot  morning  gave  promise  of  a 
hotter  day.  The  train  steamed  out  of  the  huge  depot  into  the  glare  of  the  early  sunlight, 
and  the  dust  began  to  whirl  up  beneath  the  wheels  in  a  white,  dry  cloud.  We  have 
rushed  with  lightning-speed  aldng  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Hudson— now  plunging  into 
a    dark,    damp   tunnel    cut    through    the    overhanging    rock ;    now    whirling    around    some 


ii8 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


promontory,  jutting  out  into  the  placid  river ;  and,  again,  seeming  to  skim  over  its  silvery- 
bosom,  as  we  glided  across  an  elbow  of  the  stream.      We    have    passed  beneath  Yonkers 

and  Tarrytown,  and  watched  the  shad- 
ows play  on  the  high  wall  of  the 
Palisades ;  skirted  the  shores  of  Hav- 
erstraw  Bay  and  Tappan  Zee ;  and, 
entering  the  giant  gates  of  the  High- 
lands at  Stony  Point,  caught  a  glimpse 
of  West  Point,  as  we  swung  around 
the  mountain  opposite  Cro'  -  Nest. 
Newburg  and  Poughkeepsie  have 
flashed  by  in  the  rapidly-changing  pan- 
orama. The  Hudson,  bearing  many  a 
white-sailed  craft  upon  its  bosom,  flows 
tranquilly  along  between  high  banks 
covered  with  trees,  with  here  and 
there  a  pretty  cottage  nestling  among 
them.  Now  and  then,  as  we  strain 
our  eyes  forward,  we  can  catch  for  a 
moment  a  faint  outline,  toward  the 
north,  of  high  mountains,  dark  blue 
in  the  lessening  distance.  Suddenly 
we  rush  through  a  dark  cleft  in  the 
rock,  and  then  out  again  on  the  other 
side.  On  the  western  bank  of  the 
river  you  can  see  a  series  of  ridges 
covered  with  trees,  rolling  away,  one 
after  another,  eight  or  ten  miles ;  and 
beyond  the  farthest,  lifting  their  wood- 
ed sides  up  into  the  clouds  that  have 
begun  to  settle  on  their  peaks,  are 
the  famous  mountains.  Yonder  round 
one  to  the  right  is  Black  Head  ;  then, 
in  succession.  North  Mountain,  South 
Mountain,  and  Round  Top,  with  High 
Peak  towering  over  all.  Between  this 
last  and  the  South  Mountain  you  see 
a  sharp  notch,  or  depression,  terminating  in  a  deep  shadow.  There  lies  the  Clove,  through 
which  the  Kauterskill  comes  tumbling  to  the  plain.     High  on  the  face  of  the  South  Moun- 


Rip   Van   Winkle's    House,    Catskill   Road. 


THE    CATSKILLS. 


119 


tain,  or  rather  between  it  and  its  northern  neighbor,  your  eye  detects  a  small  speck,  hang- 
ing like  a  swallow's-nest  upon  a  wall,  white  and  glistening  in  the  sun.  It  is  the  Mountain 
House,  from  the  broad  piazza  of  which  three  or  four  hundred  human  beings  are  perhaps, 
at  this  moment,  looking  out  over  the  landscape  which  lies  beneath  them  like  a  map,  and 
noting  the  faint  line  of  white  smoke  that  marks  the  passage  of  our  train.  A  scream 
escapes  from  the  locomotive,  and  the  speed  is  slackened.  Presently  we  come  to  a  dead 
stop.  Bundles  are  quickly  made ;  a  crowd  of  travellers  hurries  from  the  cars ;  baggage  is 
thrown  about  in  wild  confusion  ;  the  locomotive  gives  a  warning  whistle ;  and,  amid  a 
cloud  of  dust,  the  train  whirls  up  the  river,  and  out  of  sight  on  its  way  to  Albany. 
A  ferry-boat  lies  waiting  at  the  little  wharf  A  few  gasps  from  the  asthmatic  engine,  and 
we  are  off.  A  few  turns  of  the  lumbering  wheel,  and  we  have  reached  the  western  bank. 
Old-fashioned  stages  stand  by  the  landing,  awaiting  our  arrival.  In  a  little  while  our 
trunks  are  strapped  on  behind  ;  and,  seated  each  in  his  place,  we  swing  about,  and  are 
jolted    up    and    down,    as    the    huge    vehicles   roll    through    the    little    village    of    Catskill. 


South  Lake. 


We  have  presently  crossed  the  bridge  which  spans  the  mouth  of  the  Kauterskill,  and 
have  fairly  begun  our  ride  toward  the  mountains.  The  day  is  intensely  hot.  The 
road  stretches  before  us  white  and  dusty  in  the  sunshine.  On  either  side  the  trees 
stand  drooping,  unstirred  by  a  breath  of  air ;  and  often,  as  our  horses  slowly  pull 
their  heavy  burden  up  a  rise  in  the  road,  and  stop  a  moment  to  rest,  a  locust,  perched 
on  a  tree  by  the  road-side,  begins  his  grating  cry.  In  the  meadows  the  cows  stand 
under  the  trees,  switching  away  the  buzzing  flies  ;  and  the  recently-cut  grass  breathes 
out  its  life  in  the  soft  perfume  of  new-mown  hay.  In  the  distance,  the  clouds  have 
begun  to  gather  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains ;  and,  now  and  then,  a  long  rumble 
of  thunder  reverberates  through  them,  and  comes  rolling  down  into  the  valley.  Here 
Mr.  Fenn  pauses  to  make  his  first  sketch.  Beside  us,  the  little  Kauterskill,  wearied 
with  its  rough  journey  down  from  the  heights  yonder,  winds  among  the  trees  that 
line  its  banks,  placidly  smihng  in  the  sun.  Half  a  dozen  cows  are  standing  in  the 
stream  to  cool  themselves.     In  front,  the  valley  rolls  gradually  (about  a  thousand  feet  in 


I20 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


First   Leap   of  the   Falls. 


seven  or  eight  miles)  up  to  the  base 
of  the  mountains,  which  rise  in  the 
distance  Hke  a  wall.  Round  Top  and 
High  Peak  are  buried  in  a  dark  cloud, 
but  the  scarred  head  of  the  North 
Mountain  is  in  full  view,  and  the 
Mountain  House  is  clearly  defined 
against  a  background  of  pines. 

A  ride  of  several  hours  across  the 
fertile  valley,  climbing  the  ridges  that 
lead  like  steps  from  the  level  of  the 
river  to  the  foot  of  the  mountains, 
brings  us  at  length  to  a  toll-gate,  from 
which  we  see  the  road  straight  before 
us,  ascending  steadily.  We  have  now 
beofun  to  climb  in  earnest.  This  ex- 
cellent  road  takes  advantage  of  a  deep 
glen,  or  ravine,  through  which  in  the 
winter  the  melting  snow  finds  its  way 
into  the  valley.  By  clinging  closely  to 
the  mountain — now  creeping  around  a 
projecting  rock  ;  now  crossing  the  beds 
of  little  streams,  which,  in  the  midsum- 
mer heat,  trickle  down  the  mossy  rocks 
beneath  the  overshadowing  trees  —  it 
brings  us,  at  last,  nearly  to  the  highest 
point  of  the  ravine.  On  every  side 
huge  trees  overhang  the  road.  On  the 
right,  the  mountain  towers  straight  up 
above  our  heads ;  on  the  left,  the  pre- 
cipice plunges  headlong  down  among 
the  scattered  rocks.  As  you  climb  up 
this  steep  road,  and  see,  here  and  there, 
great  bowlders  lying  on  the  slope  of 
the  mountain,  covered  with  moss  and 
fern,  and  in  the  perpetual  shade  of  the 
forest -trees  that  interlace  their  leafy 
arms  above  you — catching  a  glimpse, 
every    now    and    then,    through    some 


CATSKILL     FALLS. 


122  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

opening  in  the  tree-tops,  of  the  valley,  a  thousand  feet  below,  and  the  river  glistening  in 
the  distance — you  can  hardly  blame  him  who,  seeking  a  scene  for  Irving's  immortal 
story,  wandered  into  the  romantic  beauties  of  this  wild  ravine,  and  called  it  "  Rip  Van 
Winkle's  Glen."  And,  indeed,  I  am  reminded  of  the  legend ;  for,  as  we  stop  to  rest  the 
horses  at  a  point  where  the  road  crosses  the  bed  of  a  stream,  from  which  we  can  look 
at  the  gorge  and  see  a  triangular  piece  of  the  valley,  set  in  the  dark  foliage  on  both 
hands  like  a  picture  in  its  frame,  a  sudden  clap  of  thunder  breaks  on  the  peaks,  and 
echoes  among  the  cliffs  above  our  heads,  rolling  off  slowly,  fainter  and  fainter,  till  it  dies 
away.  Here,  by  the  side  of  a  little  stream,  which  trickles  down  the  broad,  flat  surface 
of  a  large  rock,  is  the  shanty  called  "  Rip  Van  Winkle's  House,"  which  is  represented 
in  Mr.  Fenn's  sketch.  The  artist  is  looking  up  the  glen  from  a  point  on  the  left  of 
the  road.  On  the  right,  one  may  notice  the  corner  of  a  house,  built  for  a  tavern  some 
time  ago,  which  serves  for  a  resting-place  and  half-way  house  between  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  and  the  hotel  on  the  summit.  From  this  point  the  glen  grows  narrower 
and   steeper,  until   it   is  finally  lost  among  the  crevices  on  the  cliffs  of  the  mountain. 

The  road  now  winds  around  the  side  of  the  North  Mountain,  creeping  at  times  on 
the  edge  of  the  precipice,  and  steadily  ascending.  Mr.  Fenn  has  sketched  one  of  its 
most  striking  points  of  view.  At  a  certain  place  it  turns  abruptly,  and  commences  to 
climb  in  zigzags.  At  the  first  turn  you  suddenly  see  the  Mountain  House  directly  be- 
fore you,  apparently  at  the  distance  of  half  a  mile.  Perched  upon  a  piece  of  rock  which 
juts  out  far  over  the  side  of  the  mountain,  in  the  bright  sunshine  glistening  and  white 
against  the  pine-clad  shoulders  of  the  South  Mountain,  the  pile  of  buildings  forms  a  sin- 
gular feature  of  the  view.  On  the  left  of"  the  picture  you  may  notice  the  opening  of 
the  Kauterskill  Clove,  between  the  sloping  side  of  the  South  Mountain  and  that  of 
the  more  distant  High  Peak,  and,  above  the  clouds,  which  are  floating,  like  bits  of 
gauzy  drapery,  about  the  sides  of  the  mountains,  see  the  valley  of  the  Hudson  fading 
off  toward  the  south.  One  feature  of  these  views  is  strikingly  shown  in  this  sketch. 
The  face  of  the  cliffs  is  broken  into  ledges  of  rock,  sharp  and  jagged,  and  often  over- 
hanging the  precipice  for  more  than  a  thousand  feet. 

From  this  point  there  is  a  steady  climb  of  three  miles,  the  last  part  through  a 
narrow  gorge  shaded  by  drooping  hemlocks,  when  you  have  at  last  reached  the  plateau 
on  which  the  hotel  stands.  The  Mountain  House  is  built  on  a  flat  rock,  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  precipice.  Beneath  it  the  cliff  falls  almost  perpendicularly  about  eighteen 
hundred  feet.  The  view  from  the  piazza  is  wonderful.  Two  or  three  trees,  growing  on 
the  broken  stones  twenty  or  thirty  feet  below  the  level  of  the  house,  peep  up  above  the 
rock  in  front ;  and  between  their  waving  tops  the  landscape  for  miles  lies  spread  out 
before  you.  The  Indian  Ridge,  and  the  smafler  ridges  beneath  you,  though  in  some 
places  as  much  as  seven  hundred  feet  in  height,  are  dwarfed  into  nothingness ;  and  the 
hill-country,  through  which  you  have  ridden   from   the  river,  looks    like    a    flat    and    level 


UNDER    THE     CATSKILL     FALLS. 


124 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


plain.  Through  the  centre  of  this,  at  a  distance  of  eight  miles,  the  Hudson  winds  along 
like  a  silver  ribbon  on  a  carpet  of  emerald,  from  the  hills  below  Albany  on  the  north 
to  where,  toward  the  south,  its  glittering  stream  disappears  behind  the  Highlands  at 
West  Point.  Directly  beneath  you,  the  fertile  valley,  dotted  with  farms,  and  broken 
here    and    there    by    patches    of   rich    woodland,    is    smiling    in    the    sunlight,    constantly 

changing,  as  the  waves 
of  shadow  chase  each 
other  across  the  varied 
mass  of  green.  And, 
beyond,  an  amphitheatre 
of  mountains  rises  on 
the  horizon,  stretching, 
in  jagged  lines,  from  the 
southern  boundaries  of 
Vermont  to  Litchfield, 
in  Connecticut  —  rolling 
off,  peak  after  peak,  wave 
after  wave  of  deepening 
blue,  until  they  are  lost 
in  the  purple  of  the 
Berkshire  Hills. 

On  the  wide  face  of 
this  extended  landscape 
the  atmosphere  is  con- 
stantly producing  strange 
effects.  In  the  morning, 
when  the  sun  peeps 
above  the  distant  hills, 
and  the  valley  is  filled 
with  clouds  that  lie 
massed  a  thousand  feet 
beneath  you,  the  effect 
is  that  of  an  arctic  sea 
of  ice.  At  times,  Righi  himself  affords  no  more  wonderful  sight  than  when  the  rosy 
light  of  sunset  falls  from  behind  the  Catskills  upon  huge  masses  of  cumulus  clouds, 
heaped  up  upon  one  another  like  peaks  of  snow.  Day  by  day,  the  scene  is  changing 
with  the  hours,  and  ever  revealing  some  new  beauty.  Mr.  Fenn's  sketch  of  the  view 
at  sunrise  (see  steel  engraving)  was  taken  from  a  point  on  the  face  of  the  South  Moun- 
tain, near  the  entrance  to  the  Clove.     The  morning  had  just  broken  when  we  scrambled 


Pudding-Stone    Hall. 


THE    CATSKILLS. 


125 


over  the  edge  of  the  chff  down,  a  hundred  feet  or  more,  to  a  point  where  the  rocks, 
broken  off  from  the  mountain,  stood  up  hke  huge  monuments,  towering  out  over  the 
abyss  below. 

As  we  sat  upon  a  ledge,  from  which  a  pebble  would  have  fallen  perpendicularly 
more  than  five  hundred  feet,  the  sun  rose  up  above  the  hills  in  Massachusetts,  pouring  a 
flood  of  light  upon  the 
western  side  of  the  val- 
ley. The  eastern,  from 
the  river  to  the  foot  of 
the  distant  mountains, 
was  still  in  shadow,  filled 
with  a  mass  of  clouds, 
out  of  which  the  smaller 
hills  peeped  up  like 
rocky  islets  in  a  frozen 
sea.  Directly  beneath  us 
light,  fleecy  clouds,  white 
as  snow,  came  creeping 
out  of  the  valley,  throw- 
ing into  bold  relief  the 
gnarled  and  twisted  pines 
that  clung  to  the  rocks 
in  front  of  us.  Steadily 
the  sun  mounted  into 
the  heavens,  and  the 
clouds,  gathering  into  a 
snowy  curtain,  and  for 
a  few  moments  obscur- 
ing all  beneath,  presently 
broke  into  pieces  and 
melted  away,  and  there 
lay  the  exquisite  land- 
scape smiling  in  the  sun- 
shine. The  most  famous  beauty  of  the  region  is  the  Fall  of  the  Kauterskill.  On  the 
high  table-land  of  the  South  and  North  Mountains  lie  two  lakes,  buried  in  a  dense  forest. 
Of  one  of  these,  the  South  Lake,  Mr.  Fenn  has  given  us  a  sketch.  It  was  taken  from 
a  high  ledge  on  the  North  Mountain,  looking  southward.  The  shores  are  dark  with  pines, 
and  the  surface  of  the  lake  is  dotted  here  and  there  with  the  broad  leaves  of  the  water- 
lily,  but  the  most  striking  feature  of  the  view  is  the  summit  of  Round  Top  reflected  as 


Druid   Rocks. 


126     ■  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA.  . 

in  a  mirror.  A  little  brook,  making  its  way  from  these  lakes,  westward  along  the  shoul- 
der of  the  mountain,  soon  reaches  the  edge  of  a  very  steep  declivity,  over  which  it 
leaps    into    a  deep  pool  in  the  centre  of  a  great  amphitheatre  of  rock. 

Gathering  its  strength  again,  the  torrent  makes  a  second  leap  over  huge  bowlders, 
which  have  fallen  from  the  ledges  above  and  lie  scattered  down  the  glen,  dashing  itself 
into  foam  in  its  headlong  fury.  Tumbling  from  one  ledge  to  another,  it  reaches,  at 
length,  the  bottom  of  the  glen,  when,  meeting  the  stream  that  flows  from  Haines's  Fall, 
the  mingled  waters  hurry  down  the  stony  pathway  through  the  Clove,  and  out  into  the 
valley,  until,  swollen  to  a  wide  stream,  they  glide  placidly  into  the  Hudson  at  the  village 
of  Catskill.  There  is  nothing  more  beautiful  in  American  scenery  than  this  water-fall  as 
it  leaps  from  the  lofty  height  and  dashes  into  spray  in  the  hollow  basin  below.  The 
strata  of  which  the  mountain  is  formed  lie  piled  upon  one  another  horizontally,  and 
through  them  the  water  has  cut  its  way  smoothly  like  a  knife.  Some  distance  above 
•the  margin  of  the  pool,  in  which  the  fallen  waters  boil  as  in  a  caldron,  there  is  a 
stratum  of  soft  stone,  which  has  broken  up  and  crumbled  in  the  dampness.  Wearing 
away  several  yards  deep  into  the  cliffs,  it  has  left  a  pathway  all  around  the  Fall,  from 
which  you  have  a  fine  view,  and  often,  when  the  stream  above  is  swollen,  through  a  veil 
of  glittering  drops  dripping  from  the  rocks  above.  Exquisite  as  is  the  effect  of  the 
whole  Fall,  when  seen  from  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  its  second  leap,  this  last  point  of  view 
is  even  more  striking.  Standing  on  the  narrow  pathway,  you  look  through  the  great 
white  veil  of  falling  waters,  leaping  out  over  your  head  and  sending  up  clouds  of  spray 
that  float  "^off  down  the  gorge.  Sometimes,  when  the  sun  is  shining  brightly,  a  dancing 
rainbow  will  keep  pace  with  you  as  you  creep  around  the  semicircle  beneath  the  rock. 
Here,  too,  you  get  an  enchanting  glimpse  of  the  edges  of  the  Clove,  down  which  the 
stream  goes  headlong,  and  can  mark  the  wild  figures  of  the  pines  that  cling  to  the 
verge  of  the  cliffs,  and  seem,  with  their  black  spears,  to  pierce  the  sky. 

Upon  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice,  close  to  the  narrow  channel  through  which 
the  Fall  makes  his  plunge,  there  is  a  tree  which  has  grown  out  from  a  crevice,  and  then 
upward  until  it  juts  out  over  the  abyss.  To  this  solitary  tree  the  lad  who  acts  as  your 
guide  points  with  his  finger,  and  tells  you  of  the  adventurous  young  woman  who  crept 
out  to  the  rock,  and,  clasping  the  slender  trunk  of  the  tree  with  her  hands,  swung  her 
body  far  out  over  the  Fall,  and  then,  with  a  cry  of  triumph,  back  again  in  safety. 

Beneath  the  second  fall  the  gorge  is  wild  in  the  extreme.  On  both  sides  the 
mountains  rise  almost  perpendicularly,  clad  with  a  dense  forest,  and,  through  the  shade 
beneath,  the  torrent  roars,  ceaselessly,  among  the  rocks. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  walks  is  over  the  South  Mountain.  Immediately  after 
leaving  the  House  you  plunge  into  a  dense  thicket  of  pines,  and  commence  to  climb 
a  steep  pathway  among  the  rocks.  The  roots  of  trees,  interlacing  across  the  path,  form 
a  series  of  steps,  and,  here  and  there,  a  huge  rock  serves  for  a  resting-place  in    the  con- 


fi'ilBM;  ,ii:niiTiliiii;"'  u  ;'.i'i^)Li',i'i)rsiS'j=,Ali  i;'(:.i,  |jyB_Appli!tmiX-Co  uiflie  01Br,6  iifllij3Liliranaii.ufCmJrra»,*£alimJtou 


V/ 


UNHJ  oli  T'i-i.OM"  fiOUTH  MOUNTAIN, 


THE    CATSKILLS. 


127 


stant  ascent.  In  a  few  minutes  you  have  reached  the  level  of  a  stratum  of  conglom- 
erate of  many  feet  in  thickness,  which  lies  across  the  top  of  this  and  the  North  Moun- 
tain. Some  convulsion  of  Nature  has  riven  off  a  piece  of  it,  which  now  lies  on  the 
hill-side,  many  feet  in  thickness,  and  eighteen  or  twenty  high.  Between  this  and  the 
solid  rock  is  a  passage  several  feet  in  length  and  two  or  three    in  width,  to  which   some 


MlMSSii5^^ 


Looking   South   from   South    Mountain. 


one  has  given  the  name  of  "  Pudding-Stone  Hall."  Ferns  are  growing  in  the  dark  re- 
cesses of  the  rock,  and  water  drips  constantly  into  the  cavity.  Your  path  leads  through 
this  chasm,  and,  by  means  of  a  pile  of  stones  at  the  farther  end,  as  shown  in  the 
sketch,  you  climb  up  to  the  top  of  the  ledge  of  conglomerate.  Here  the  trees  are 
white  and  dead,  having  been  killed  by  repeated  fires,  and  the  path  winds  among  the 
rocks,  half  buried  in  long  mountain-grass  or  blueberry-bushes,  until  it   comes    out    to    the 


12^ 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Glimpse    of   Catskill    Clove    from    Indian    Head. 


eastern    face    of     the     mountain. 
You    are,  of  course,    high    above 
the      level      of     the      Mountain 
House,   which    lies    beneath    you 
to    the    left,    and    the    view    over 
the  surrounding  country  and  the 
valley    of    the    Hudson    is    even 
more    extended    than    that    from 
the  piazza  of  the  hotel.     With  a 
good  glass  you  can  distinguish  a 
round    object    glittering    on    the 
summit  of  a    hill    on   the    north- 
ern  horizon.      It   is    the    Capitol 
at  Albany,  forty  miles  off  as  the 
crow    flies.      Farther    along,    still 
keeping  southward,  and  occasion- 
ally climbing  up  steep  steps,  you 
find    the    cliffs    exceedingly    fine. 
Some    of  them    are    sharply  cut, 
and    overhang    the    tops    of    the 
tallest  trees   that   grow  from    the 
debris  at  their  base.     On  a  prom- 
ontory   of    high    rock,    near    the 
entrance  to  the  Kauterskill  Clove, 
lies  "  the  Bowlder,"  which  is  often 
the    goal    of  walking-parties.      It 
is  a  huge  block  of  the  pudding- 
stone  brought  here,  doubtless,  by 
the  ice  in  the  glacial  period,  and 
left  by  some    strange    chance    on 
the   very  verge    of  the    precipice. 
A  few  feet  farther   and    it  would 
have   toppled    over  the  edge  and 
crashed  downward  two    thousand 
feet     into    the     bottom     of    the 
Clove.      Mr.  Fenn    has    sketched 
the    Bowlder    and    the    cliffs    on 
top  of  which  it   lies.      From   his 
point    of   view    you    look    south- 


THE    CATSKILLS. 


129 


ward,  across  the  mouth   of  the 
Clove,    the    great    shoulder    of 
High    Peak    and    Round    Top 
rising     up      abruptly      beyond. 
Here,  as  in    the   sketch  of  the 
sunrise,    the    precipitous    walls 
of  rock    hardly  afford    foothold 
for    the    weather  -  beaten    pines 
that   grow  out    of  the  crevices 
and    wave    their    twisted    arms 
from  the  dizzy  heights.     Some- 
times,   after     passing     through 
Pudding-Stone   Hall,  you  keep 
straight  along  the  path  through 
the    woods    instead    of  turning 
eastward    toward    the    face    of 
the    mountain.      After    a    time 
you    come    to    a    point    where 
the    bits    of    rock    have    fallen 
from    the    ledge   above  and  lie 
scattered  along  the  hill-side,  like 
the    bowlders   hurled  about    in 
the  giant  warfare  of  the  Titans. 
The  wood  is  dense    and    dark  : 
the  pines  interlacing  their  arms 
above   your  head  throw  a  per- 
petual twilight  on  the  hill-side, 
and,    as    you    sit    on    the    soft 
carpet    of    their    fallen    leaves, 
and    see    these    huge    fantastic 
rocks     scattered     around     you, 
one   cannot    but    feel    that    the 
name  of  "  Druid  Rocks,"  which 
has    been   given    to    the    place, 
is   at    once  suggestive   and   ap- 
propriate.    At    times    the    path 
keeps   close   along  the    sloping 
hill-side,  finding  a  doubtful  way 
beneath  the    base    of  tall    cliffs 


Bridge    in    Catsl<ill    Clove. 


I30  .        PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

covered  with    moss ;   at  others    it  cHmbs  through  some  crevice,  and,  ascending  to  the  top 
of  the  ledge,  winds  among  the  gray  rocks  in  the  full  glare  of  a  summer's  sun. 

A  dehghtful  walk  brings  you  at  last  to  Indian  Head.  This  name  is  given  to  a 
bold  promontory  which  juts  out  over  the  Clove  until  it  overhangs  the  bed  of  the  tum- 
bling, tossing  Kauterskill.  From  this  rock  the  mountain  falls  eighteen  hundred  or  two 
thousand  feet.  Half  a  dozen  tall  pines,  growing  out  of  the  cliff,  divided  into  two 
groups  on  either  hand,  form  a  sort  of  dark,  rustic  frame  for  the  exquisite  picture.  The 
Clove  at  this  place  is  very  narrow,  and,  along  the  bottom,  the  Kauterskill  goes  tumbling 
and  foaming  over  the  stones.  Along  the  base  of  the  cliff,  on  the  left  or  southern  side 
of  the  glen,  winds  the  little  road  that  leads  from  the  village  at  its  mouth  up  to  the 
table-land  beyond  the  famous  falls.  On  both  sides,  the  mountains  tower  high  above  your 
heads,  heavily  wooded  to  the  summits  with  chestnut  and  pine,  through  the  rich  green 
of  which,  here  and  there,  you  can  see  the  rugged  face  of  a  huge  precipice,  scarred  and 
broken  by  the  frosts,  and  spotted  with  dark  lichen  and  moss.  As  we  gazed  down  into 
the  Clove  a  heavily-laden  stage  came  lumbering  into  view,  looking,  as  it  does  in  Mr. 
Fenn's  sketch,  like  a  mere  speck  upon  the  winding  road.  We  watched  it  creeping 
along,  often  half  hidden  by  the  trees,  until  it  passed  over  the  little  rustic  bridge  that 
spans  a  brawling  cataract,  and  vanished  behind  the  dark  shoulder  of  the  mountain.  It 
was  a  perfect  day.  About  the  great  head  of  Fligh  Peak  the  clouds  had  thrown  a  scarf 
of  v/hite,  the  shadow  of  which  darkened  his  mighty  shoulders  and  the  gorge  beneath. 
The  colors  were  constantly  changing  with  the  moving  clouds,  and  the  sunlight  played 
and  danced  upon  the  walls  of  rock  and  the  masses  of  deepest  green,  while  the  sound 
of  the  Kauterskill  came  floating  up  to  us  from  its  stony  bed,  where  it  dashed  along,  now 
sparkling  in  the  sunlight  and  then  plunging  over  mossy  rocks  into  the  shade.  The  won- 
derful effect  of  this  play  of  light  and  shade  is  perfectly  shown  by  the  accompanying 
picture.  The  little  rustic  bridge  which  is  seen  in  the  view  from  Indian  Head  spans  the 
stream  at  one  of  the  most  striking  points  in  the  Clove.  Of  it  Mr.  Fenn  has  made  a 
sketch  from  a  rock  just  below  it  in  the  stream.  The  light  structure,  hardly  strong 
enough,  apparently,  to  bear  the  heavy  stage  that  is  about  to  cross  it,  hangs  over  the 
Kauterskill  where  it  comes  tumbling  over  some  huge  rocks  that  have  fallen  in  its  path. 
The  water  boils  and  tosses  into  foam,  and  then  dashes  headlong  down  a  succession  of 
ledges  beneath.  On  one  side,  the  cliff  towers  high  into  the  air,  sharp  and  smooth  as 
masonry,  looking  like  the  walls  of  a  great  mediaeval  castle.  On  the  other,  the  spurs  of 
the  South  Mountain,  densely  covered  with  trees,  rise  rapidly  more  than  fifteen  hundred 
feet.  It  is  a  most  romantic  spot.  As  you  stand  upon  Sunset  Rock  and  look  westward 
up  the  Clove,  you  have  one  of  the  most  picturesque  views  in  the  range  of  mountain 
scenery.  The  rock  is  broad  and  flat,  projecting  far  out  over  the  precipice.  An  old  pine- 
tree  stands,  like  a  sentinel,  upon  its  very  verge.  In  front  of  and  behind  you,  as  you  sit 
by   the    old    tree    on    the    dizzy   edge,    the    mountain    pushes   two   great,   gray   cliffs,   bald 


THE    CATSKILLS. 


13J 


and  ragged,  far  out  over  the  glen,  and  then 
falls  in  broken  lines  a  scarred  and  frowning 
precipice. 

The  lines    of  the  South    Mountain    and 
.,      ,  °^    the    spurs     of    High     Peak    and    Round    Top 

b  end  so    gently    together,  as    they  n.eet  beneath,  that  it  is  difficult  to  trace    the    bed   of 
the    Kauterskill    or    its    tributary    even    by    the    shadows    in   the    dense    forest    of  green. 


132 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


The   Five   Cascades,    Kauterskill   Clove. 


Directly  in  front  of  you  the  ta- 
ble-land, which  is  formed  by  the 
shoulders  of  these  mountains, 
rolls  off  toward  the  westward?, 
where  the  sharp  lines  of  Hunter 
Mountain  are  clearly  defined 
against  the  sky  among  its  sister 
peaks.  Over  the  edge  of  this 
table-land  leaps  Haines's  Fall. 
As  in  the  accompanying  engrav- 
ing, it  looks,  from  Sunset  Rock, 
like  a  white  spot  in  the  dark 
forest — glittering  for  an  instant 
in  the  sunlight,  and  then  plung- 
ing down  behind  the  waving 
tree-tops. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  the  sketches  made  by 
Mr.  Fenn  is  that  of  the  Five 
Cascades,  as  they  are  improperly 
called.  A  stiff  climb  from  the 
bottom  of  the  Kauterskill  Clove 
—  commencing  at  the  point 
where  the  carriage-road  leaves  it 
and  following  the  bed  of  the 
stream  that  comes  down  from 
Haines's,  now  clambering  over 
bowlders  and  fallen  trees,  and 
again  scrambling  up  the  wet 
rocks  or  clinging  to  the  vine-clad 
banks — brought  us  at  last  to  the 
Five  Cascades.  It  was  an  en- 
chanting spot.  The  stream,  after 
plunging  over  the  cliff — as  shown 
in  the  view  from  Sunset  Rock — 
like  a  far-off  feathery  vapor  into 
a  large  shallow  pool,  jumps  rap- 
idly over  a  series  of  ledges  from 
ten  to  forty  feet    in    height,  that 


THE    CATSKILLS. 


133 


lead  like  steps  down  into  the  Clove.  Through  the  succession  of  the  ages  it  has  worn 
its  way  among  the  rocks  until,  for  most  of  the  distance,  its  path  is  hidden  from  the 
sunshine.  In  many  places  the  branches  of  the  trees  on  the  high  banks  above  are  in- 
tertwined across  the  ravine,  down  which  the  little  stream  dashes  in  hundreds  of  beauti- 
ful cataracts  in  a  perpetual  twilight.  There  are,  in  truth,  hundreds  of  these  falls,  but 
five  of  them  are  peculiarly  striking — and  three  of  these  are  represented  in  the  engrav- 
ing. As  we  sat  upon  a  fallen  tree  and  gazed  upon  the  stream,  dashing  its  cold,  gray 
waters  over  the  black  rocks,  a  shaft  of  sunlight  broke  through  the  tree-tops  above  our 
heads  and  fell  upon  the  middle  fall.  The  change  was  instantaneous.  Above  it  and 
below,  the  cataracts  were  still  in  shadow,  but  the  central  one,  in  the  bright  sunshine, 
threw  over  the  glistening  rock  a  myriad  of  diamonds.  For  five  minutes  the  water 
seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  glorious  light,  when  suddenly  it  faded — the  spell  was  broken, 
and  the  little  cataract  went  tumbling  over  the  dark  rocks  in  the  gloom   again. 


Stony    Clove. 


The  last  engraving  is  a  distant  view  of  Stony  Clove — a  pass  in  the  mountains  fa- 
mous for  the  wildness  of  its  scenery.  It  is  always  dark  and  cool,  and  even  in  mid- 
August  you  may  find  ice  among  the  crevices  of  the  rocks  that  have  fallen  in  great 
numbers  from  the  cliffs  above.  The  sketch  was  made  as  we  drove  toward  the  northern 
entrance.  A  thunder-storm  was  gathering  about  the  southern  gate  of  the  pass,  and  a 
rainbow  seemed  to  rest  upon  the  mountains  hovering  above  the  Clove. 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  attractions  of  this  charming  region.  Of  course  there  are 
drives  over  fine  roads  among  the  hill-tops,  and  countless  walks  through  the  forests  and 
over  the  ledges,  with  the  usual  results  of  torn  clothes,  sunburnt  faces,  and  hearty  appe- 
tites. To  the  dweller  in  a  city  of  the  plain,  weary  of  work  and  worn  with  the  tumult 
of  its  life,  there  are  few  places  in  the  whole  range  of  American  scenery  so  attractive 
and  refreshing  as  the  Catskill  Mountains. 


THE    JUNIATA. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    GRANVILLE    PERKINS. 


Duncannon,   Mouth  of  the  Juniata. 


AMERICANS  are  but  too  apt  to  rank  their  rivers  by  their  size,  and  almost  refuse 
to  beheve  that  a  stream  can  be  exceedingly  lovely  that  does  not  flow,  at  the 
least,  a  thousand  miles  or  so.  Such  a  work  as  the  present  will  go  far  to  remove  this 
way  of  thinking,  since  the  scenes  depicted  of  many  rivers  will  enable  the  world  to  com- 
pare and  contrast  them  more  accurately;  and  the  comparison  will  assuredly  award  the 
palm  of  loveliness  to  the  smaller  streams. 


THE    JUNIATA. 


135 


The  Juniata  is  a  tributary — a  mountain-tributary — of  the  far-famed  Susquehanna; 
and  though  its  short  life  begins  at  a  point  beyond  Clearfield,  and  ends  at  Duncannon — 
a  distance  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles — yet  does  it  present  many  scenes  of  entrancing 
beauty.  It  falls  into  the  Susquehanna,  about  a  mile  from  the  last-named  place,  in  a  site 
that  deserves  certainly  to  have  been  the  theme  of  poets'  song,  and  the  inspiration  of 
the  artist's  brush.  The  village  of  Duncannon  is  built  at  the  base  of  numerous  foot-hills, 
which  lie  crouching  beneath  the  colossal  mountain-forms  that  rise  to  a  height  of  several 
thousand    feet    into    the    blue    air.      It  is  a  curious  fact  that  these  foot-hills  are  not   from 


Night-Scene   on   the   Juniata,   near    Perryville. 


the  detritus  and  washing  away  of  the  mountains  above  ;  for  the  former  have  a  limestone 
substance,  and  the  latter  are  of  sandstone.  Hence  the  foot-hills  are  not  only  fertile,  but 
singularly  adapted  for  raising  wheat,  and  for  the  cultivation  of  the  vine.  The  mountains 
are  covered  from  base  to  summit  with  a  luxuriant  growth  of  forest-trees,  mostly  oaks, 
chestnuts,  hickories,  pecans,  and  other  hard  woods.  As  one  ascends  higher  and  higher 
into  the  mountain-region  where  the  Juniata  takes  its  birth,  pines  and  spruces  appear ;  but 
at  Duncannon  one  may  look  long  at  the  masses  of  superb  foliage  without  discovering 
the  dark-green  leafage  and  the  upright  form  of  a  pine. 

Ascending  one  of  the  foot-hills,  covered  with  high,  waving  corn,  the  spectator  obtains 


136 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Windings    of  the   Juniata,    near    Perryville. 


a  noble  view  of  the  Sus- 
quehanna and  its  lovely 
tributary.  The  first  river  is 
quite  broad  here,  and  pours 
a  brow^n,  whelming  flood, 
nearly  a  mile  w^ide,  in  the 
direction  of  Harrisburg, 
though  the  manner  in 
which  the  mountains  put 
their  heads  together,  as  one 
looks  backward,  renders  its 
course  entirely  problemati- 
cal. Looking  opposite  from 
the  Duncannon  foot  -  hill, 
there  lies  in  full  outline  a 
superb  mountain,  at  whose 
base  runs  the  Northern 
Central  Railway  of  Penn- 
sylvania, and  the  canal, 
which  formerly  belonged  to 
the  State,  but  has  since  be- 
come the  property  of  the 
Pennsylvania  road.  This 
mountain,  like  the  others, 
is  densely  wooded  ;  but 
there  are  places  where  its 
sides  are  bare,  and  show  a 
mass  of  small,  broken  rocks, 
approaching  shale,  which 
would  entirely  destroy  any 
beauty  in  these  mountain- 
forms.  The  kindly  mantle 
of  green  foliage  w-hich  Na- 
ture has  given  them  is  an 
absolute  necessity  as  regards 
the  picturesque,  though,  as 
a  consequence,  the  eye  in 
vain  looks  for  the  sheer 
descent   and   the    bold,  rug- 


THE    JUNIATA.  137 

ged  outlines  which  make  mountain  scenery  sublime.  Here,  on  the  contrary,  every  thing 
has  a  gentle  slope,  and  one  often  sees  a  succession  of  wooded  terraces  mounting  upward 
into  the  air.  The  manner  in  which  these  enormous  masses  of  tree-coverings  arrest  and 
detain  the  blue  particles  of  air  has  won  for  them  the  appellation  of  Blue  Mountains, 
though  geographically  they  are  known  as  the  Kittatinny.  Beyond  this  mountain  rises  up 
another  of  still  grander  majesty ;  and  just  between  them  is  the  bridge  over  which  the 
teams  of  the  canal-boats  cross  from  the  Susquehanna  to  accompany  the  Juniata.  At  this 
point,  therefore,  the  waters  meet.  The  mouth  of  the  Juniata  is  not  very  broad,  and 
seems  quite  narrow  when  compared  with  the  flood  of  her  big  sister ;  but  her  stream  is 
much  deeper,  and  her  waters  of  a  deep  blue.  The  poets  of  the  locality  love  to  write 
about  the  blue  Juniata,  and  speak  of  it  as  the  gently-gliding  stream.  In  summer-time, 
no  doubt,  this  name  is  appropriate ;  but  from  the  hill  of  observation  above  Duncannon 
one  can  see  the  remains  of  four  stone  piers — all  that  is  left  of  the  bridge  that  spanned 
the  Juniata  at  this  point.  Regularly  every  spring,  when  the  snows  melt  and  the  ice 
piles  up  in  masses,  the  Juniata  sweeps  away  her  bridges  as  if  they  were  feathers,  and 
comes  rushing  into  the  Susquehanna  with  a  wealth  of  blue  water  that  materially  changes 
the  color  of  the  big,  brown  stream.  At  Harrisburg  they  know,  by  the  color  of  the 
stream  that  rushes  past,  when  the  waters  come  from  the  Juniata;  and  they  mutter 
about  lively  times  down  Huntingdon  way.  There  is  a  broad,  bold  curve  of  land  on  the 
left  bank  of  the  Juniata,  which  hides  all  but  its  mouth  from  observation  ;  but  the  Sus- 
quehanna can  be  seen  wandering  among  the  foot-hills,  and  swelling  out  like  a  lake  in 
various  places. 

Following  the  bank  of  the  blue  Juniata,  side  by  side  with  the  canal,  one  is  for  a 
few  miles,  at  first,  in  a  level  country.  The  stream  is  not  broad,  but  tolerably  deep,  and 
abounding  in  fish,  which  rise  every  moment  at  the  flies  that  hover  over  the  placid  sur- 
face. Between  here  and  Perryville  the  river  is  full  of  beautiful  islands,  covered  with 
trees  whose  branches  sweep  down  to  the  ground  and  often  hide  the  bank.  With  the 
branches  are  interlaced  wild-vines,  with  huge  leaves ;  and  between  them  the  golden-rod, 
and  the  big  yellow  daisy,  and  the  large-leaved  fern,  make  their  appearance.  In  the  low 
parts  of  these  islands  there  are  beautiful  mosses,  and  a  species  of  water-grass  which 
becomes  a  deep  orange  in  circular  patches.  Some  of  these  islands  are  quite  large,  com- 
paratively speaking;  and  one  can  spy,  through  the  crossed  and  entangled  branches,  the 
glimmer  of  white  dresses,  and  the  glancing  of  fair  faces,  belonging  to  a  picnicking 
party,  or  perhaps  to  folks  going  a-berrying,  who,  having  filled  their  baskets,  have  been 
romantic  enough  to  eat  their  lunch  on  the  Moss  Islands. 

Approaching  Perryville,  the  foot-hills  disappear,  and  the  bright  glimpse  of  champaign 
country  vanishes.  The  mountains  are  once  more  upon  us,  looming  up  into  the  clear 
sky  like  giants.  They  are  on  both  sides,  and  in  front  likewise.  On  the  right  there  is 
one  huge,  solid  wall,  with    hardly  an    irregularity    or    a    break    along    the    crest,  which    is 


I^W 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Moss   Islands,    in   the   Juniata. 


straight  as  a  piece  of  masonry.  Or,  the  left  the  mountains  are  strung  along  hke  a  cham 
of  gigantic  agates.  Each  seems  to  be  triangular,  and  between  each  is  a  ravme,  where 
there  are  not  only  tall  trees,  but  also  fine  slopes  of  high  grass.  There  are  deer  m  there, 
and  there  are  black  bears  on  the  summit ;   but,  to  see  them,  one  must  live  on  a  farm  on 


THE    JUNIATA.  139 

the  mountain-side,  and  be  one  of  the  sons  of  the  mountain.  The  fercz  naturce  do  not 
love  the  scream  of  the  steam-whistle,  and  abide  far  away  on  the  long  slopes  of  the 
sides,  which  we  do  not  see,  for  we  are  now  skirting  the  bases  of  their  triangular  fronts. 
Nine-tenths  of  those  who  pass  them  never  dream  how  far  back  these  mountains  ex- 
tend ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  somewhat  difficult  for  any  one  to  keep  in  his  head  the  multi- 
form appearances  of  the  same  mountain  as  viewed  from  various  sides.  At  night-time, 
when  there  is  a  full  moon,  the  river  near  Perryville  is  exceedingly  grand  —  the  solemn 
stillness  of  the  hour ;  the  lapping  sound  of  the  gentle  water ;  the  whisper  of  the  wind 
among  the  trees,  that  seems  more  like  the  falling  of  a  distant  cascade  than  the  rustling 
of  leaf  on  leaf,  and  the  chafing  of  bough  against  bough.  When  the  wind  rises,  then 
the  voices  of  the  mountain  speak ;  and  a  storm  of  groans,  shrieks,  and  mutterings,  is 
loosened.  Voices  of  command,  of  entreaty,  threats,  muffled  or  rising  high,  are  borne 
upon  the  air ;  and  it  seems  as  if  the  murky  night  were  being  peopled  with  an  invisible 
creation,  with  voices  that  were  formless,  but  had  souls  that  spoke  through  the  endless 
modulations  of  sound. 

But  if  the  approach  to  Perryville  be  most  beautiful  by  night,  it  is  not  so  beyond. 
For  the  great  wall  sinks  behind  a  line  of  detached  mountains  here  which  come  sloping 
down  to  the  river  in  long  capes  and  promontories,  covered  by  a  profusion  of  many-hued 
foliage.  On  the  left  bank,  the  mountains  still  show  their  bold  fronts,  and  the  stream, 
forced  around  the  capes  on  the  one  side,  has  worn  similar  indentations  on  the  other, 
presenting  a  most  beautiful  appearance.  The  most  picturesque  part  of  this  lovely  region 
is  after  we  pass  the  little  village  of  Mexico ;  and  it  may  be  noted  here  that  the  nomen- 
clature of  the  whole  place  is  ridiculous  beyond  comparison,  the  pretty  names  being  all 
cribbed  from  Ireland,  and  the  others  having  no  meaning  or  relationship  whatever.  It  is 
difficult  to  say  whether  the  river  is  finer  looking  forward  or  looking  back.  Perhaps 
looking  forward  is  the  best,  if  one  can  leave  out  of  the  perspective  a  wretched  mountain 
called  Slip  Hill,  which,  having  been  deprived  by  the  wood-cutters  of  its  forest-mantle, 
has  ever  since  taken  to  rolling  stones  down  its  great  slope,  and  presents  a  hideously  for- 
lorn appearance.  It  is  covered  from  apex  to  base  with  a  mass  of  small,  flat  stones,  like 
scales,  and  about  every  half-hour  there  is  a  movement,  and  a  miniature  land-slip  goes 
ghding  into  the  river.  As  the  stones  are  quite  small,  the  river  sends  them  along,  but 
they  have  materially  changed  the  bed  in  places,  and  made  the  stream  quite  shallow.  If 
this  unfortunate  bit  tan  be  hidden,  the  view  is  the  perfection  of  the  picturesque.  It  does 
not  amount  to  sublimity,  for  the  hills  are  not  bold  enough  for  that.  But  the  curves  of 
the  stream  are  so  graceful,  and  the  slopes  of  the  mountains  covered  with  green  so  grand, 
that  the  imagination  is  charmed  and  the  feelings  softened. 

The  next  point  along  the  line  of  the  Juniata  is  one  where  the  river  sinks  into  a 
very  subordinate  position,  indeed.  The  hills  on  both  sides,  that  have  hitherto  been  so 
amiable,  suddenly  break  off,  and  the  great  wall  comes  into  view  on  the  right  hand,  while 


140 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Narrows   near   Lewistown. 


on  the  left  we  get  the  side  of  a  mountain  instead  of  its  front.  On  both  banks  the  hills 
are  remarkably  steep,  and  they  approach  so  closely  together  as  to  confine  the  little  river 
within  extremely  narrow  bounds.  For  seven  miles  and  a  half  this  imprisonment  lasts; 
and  here,  perhaps,  the  mountains  show  their  grandest  forms.      The  bases    are   often    crag- 


THE    JUNIATA. 


141 


like,  showing  huge  masses  of  stone  that  seem  to  hang  on  to  the  side  without  any  defi- 
nite support,  and  threaten  momentarily  to  come  down  upon  one's  head.  The  summits  in 
a  few  instances  have  castellated  forms,  and  beguile  the  eye  with  momentary  impressions 
of  battlements,  from  which  the  wild-cherry  or  the  vine  flings  itself  to  the  breeze  like  a 
banner.  Unfortunately,  these  spots  are  rare,  but  the  general  character  of  the  scenery  is 
much  bolder  than  in  other  places.  It  is  astonishing  how  the  mist  clings  here,  and  how 
resolutely   the    sun    is    combated.      The   bright    luminary    has    to     be    quite    high    in    the 


The   Forks    of  the  Juniata,  near    Huntingdon. 


heavens  before  his  rays  can  surmount  the  barriers  which  Nature  has  planted  against  the 
sunlight.  Slowly  the  masses  of  white  mist  rise  like  smoke,  clinging  to  the  sides  of  the 
hills  in  great  strata.  When  the  sun  reaches  down  to  the  surface  of  the  river,  the  mists 
have  disappeared,  but  there  are  tiny  spirals,  like  wreaths  of  smoke,  which  dance  upon 
the  water,  and  remain  for  many  minutes.  At  length  all  is  clear,  and  the  blue  firmament 
smiles  down  upon  us,  the  golden  clouds  sail  over  us,  and  the  sun  beams  beneficently 
down.     In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  mists  have  marshalled  their  hosts,  and  the  whole 


THE    JUNIATA.  143 

scene — sky,  mountains,  and  river — is  blotted  out.  Then  tiie  battle  has  to  be  fought 
again.  Once  more  the  sunbeams  triumph,  and  the  beaten  vapor  clings  for  protection  to 
the  sides  of  the  hills,  and  the  maids  of  the  mist  dance  upon  the  waters.  But  all  is  not 
yet  over,  and  the  contest  often  is  waged  until  far  in  the  day,  when  the  sun's  triumph 
becomes  lasting.  As  the  entrance  into  the  Narrows  was  sudden,  so  the  exit  is  abrupt 
One  wanders  along  the  tow-path  of  the  canal  looking  up  at  the  mountains,  and  won- 
dering how  much  nearer  they  intend  to  come,  and  whether  they  are  going  to  act  like 
the  iron  shroud,  and  close  in  and  crush  us  utterly,  \\\\tx\, presto !  the  Juniata  makes  a  bold 
fling  to  the  right,  and  we  find  ourselves  in  Lewistown,  with  the  mountains  behind  us 
and  a  pleasant  valley  smiling  welcome  in  our  front. 

Between  Lewistown  and  Huntingdon  the  scenery  is  extremely  beautiful ;  but  to  de- 
scribe it  would  be  simply  a  repetition  of  the  phrases  applied  to  Perryville,  where  the 
curves  of  the  river  are  so  lovely.  .But  the  mountains  are  decidedly  bolder,  and  the  river 
becomes  wilder,  and  curves  in  such  a  multitudinous  fashion  as  to  make  frequent  bridging 
absolutely  necessary.  One  of  the  chief  charms  of  this  route  may  perhaps  be  in  the  fact 
that,  on  the  right-hand  side,  there  are  two  ranges — one  always  like  a  Titanic  wall,  the 
other  a  broken  line  of  skirmishers.  As  one  advances  higher  and  higher  into  the  moun- 
tain-region, the  pines  begin  to  show  on  the  sides  of  the  great  cones  of  sandstone  like  a 
shaggy  fringe,  and  the  masses  of  rock  are  larger  and  more  picturesque.  At  Huntingdon, 
the  hills  retire,  and  leave  a  pleasant  level.  Here  the  Juniata  forks,  the  larger  but  less 
picturesque  fork  striking  southward  toward  Hollidaysburg,  and  the  smaller  branch,  known 
as  the  Little  Juniata,  going  west  in  the  direction  of  Tyrone.  The  canal  and  the  Penn- 
sylvania Railroad,  which  hitherto  have  faithfully  run  side  by  side  along  the  Juniata,  now 
separate  also,  the  canal  going  with  the  big  branch  and  the  railway  with  the  little  one. 
In  consequence  of  this  separation  there  are  many  bridges  at  Huntingdon,  and  the  place 
looks  quite  picturesque  with  its  background  of  mountains  and  its  wandering  streams. 
But  henceforth  the  Juniata  ceases  to  be  a  river,  both  branches  being  just  trout-streams, 
and  nothing  more.  And,  what  is  still  more  cruel,  the  Little  Juniata  loses  its  beautiful 
blue  color,  because  it  flows  through  a  mining-region,  and  the  miners  will  persist  in 
washing  their  ore  in  its  clear  wave. 

After  we  leave  Huntingdon  we  are  in  the  mountains  altogether.  Various  creeks 
join  the  Little  Juniata,  which  winds  so  that  it  has  to  be  bridged  every  three  or  four 
miles.  At  the  junction  of  Spruce  Creek,  the  mountains  on  the  left,  which  have  been 
shouldering  us  for  some  time  back,  suddenly  hurl  a  huge  barrier  over  our  path  in  the 
shape  of  Tussey's  Mountain — a  great  turtle-backed  monster,  several  thousand  feet  high. 
The  wall  on  the  right  hand  closes  in  at  the  same  time,  so  that  there  is  no  resource  left 
but  a  tunnel,  which,  however,  is  not  a  very  long  one.  We  are  now  seven  miles  from 
Tyrone,  the  centre  of  the  mountains,  and  the  pines  are  quite  thick.  The  hills  that  lie 
at  the  base  of  the  mountains  show  pleasant  farm-houses  and  deep-green-leaved  corn.     The 


SINKINa     RUN,    ABOVE    TYRONE. 


THE    JUNIATA.  145 

mountains  show  us  now  their  fronts  and  now  their  bases,  but  are  never  out  of  sight,  and 
at  intervals  come  right  up  to  us.  At  Tyrone  they  look  as  if  they  had  been  cleft  asunder, 
for  there  is  a  great  gap  cut  between  two  mountains.  This  in  times  past  was  doubtless 
the  work  of  the  Juniata,  and  was  not  so  difficult  as  it  looks ;  for  the  shaly  mountains 
are  very  different  from  the  firm  limestone,  through  which  the  Kanata  cuts  its  way  at 
Trenton  Falls.  On  the  right  hand,  however,  the  hard  sandstone  shows  for  a  considerable 
space,  and  affords  all  the  stone  of  which  the  bridges  in  the  neighborhood  are  built. 
Tyrone  is  built  in  quite  a  considerable  valley.  The  mountains  open  out  for  some 
distance  to  the  eastward  and  to  the  westward.  But  north  and  south  they  hang  on 
with  the  persistence  of  bull-dogs.  The  river  in  the  olden  times  must  have  swelled 
to  a  lake  here,  and  cut  the  gap  through  the  line  of  mountains  that  stretch  north 
and  south,  being  aided  by  countless  creeks  and  nameless  streams.  Bald-Eagle  Creek 
joins  the  river  here,  and,  in  spring-time,  the  plain  in  front  of  the  gap  is  one  stretch  of 
water.  The  town  is  built  away  from  the  Juniata,  and  rises  in  terraces  along  the  Bald- 
Eagle  Creek,  the  foot-hills  being  highly  cultivated.  There  is  quite  a  wealth  of  pine 
on  these  mountains,  though  it  is  all  second  growth,  every  hard-wood  tree  having  been 
cut  down  to  supply  charcoal  for  the  Tyrone  forges,  which  originated  the  city,  though 
now  it  is  a  centre  for  the  mountain  railroads.  The  scenery  around  is  decidedly  Alpine 
in  character ;  and  some  of  the  roads  made  for  the  lumber  business  traverse  regions  of 
savage  beauty.  Thunder-storms  are  of  daily  occurrence  up  in  these  heights,  and  luckless 
is  the  stranger  wight  who  trusts  to  his  umbrella ;  for  the  winds  will  turn  it  inside  out, 
and  will  propel  it  forward,  dragging  its  reluctant  owner  to  the  brink  of  precipices,  and, 
after  giving  him  chills  of  terror,  will  at  length  drag  it  from  his  grasp,  and  leave  him  um- 
brellaless,  exposed  to  the  pelting  storm.  The  curious  thing  about  these  storms  is,  that  one 
does  not  last  five  minutes,  and  the  sun  is  out  and  drying  one's  habiliments  long  before 
such  a  thing  could  be  hoped  for.  But  the  clouds  whirl  about  the  mountains  so  furiously 
that  one  is  sure  to  be  caught  several  times,  and  the  writer  was  wetted  to  the  skin 
three  distinct  times  when  descending  Sinking-Run  Hill,  a  mountain  about  six  miles  from 
Tyrone.  The  view  presented  by  the  artist  is  taken  from  an  old  road  now  discontinued 
for  lumber  travel,  which  starts  from  the  side  of  the  mountain,  about  half-way  up,  and  de- 
scends circuitously  to  the  base  of  the  opposite  mountain.  Wild-cherries  and  whortle- 
berries grow  in  abundance,  and  the  route  is  shaded  by  pines  and  hickories,  while  an  oc- 
casional spruc6-tree  adds  variety  to  the  foliage.  The  waters  of  the  run  are  agreeable  to 
drink,  though  impregnated  by  sand.  In  the  spring  of  the  year  the  mountains  are  one 
blaze  of  rhododendron  blossoms.  Then  is  the  time  to  visit  them  if  one  is  not  afraid  of 
wet  feet ;  for  the  waters  are  then  out  in  every  direction,  and  tiny  runs  of  water  trickle 
across  the  road  everywhere. 

90 


ON    THE    OHIO. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    ALFRED    R.    WAUD. 


The   Ohio,  below   Pittsburg. 


/'~\-HE-YO  is  a  Wyandot  word,  signifying  "Fair  to  look  upon."  The  early  French 
^-^  explorers,  floating  down  the  river's  gentle  tide,  adopted  the  name,  translating  it  into 
their  own  tongue  as  la  Belle  Riviere,  and  the  English,  who  here  as  elsewhere  throughout 
the  West,  stepped  into  the  possessions  of  the  French,  took  the  word  and  its  spelling, 
but  gave  it  their  own  pronunciation,  so  that,  instead  of  O-he-yo,  we  now  have  the  Ohio. 
It  is  a  lovely,  gentle  stream,  flowing  on  between  the  North  and  South.  It  does  not 
bustle  and  rush  along  over  rocks  and  down  rapids,  turning  mills  and  factories  on  its 
way,  and  hurrying  its  boats  up  and  down,  after  the  manner  of  busy,  anxious  Northern 
rivers;  neither  does  it  go  to  sleep  all  along  shore  and  allow  the  forest  flotsam  to  clog 
up  its  channel,  like  the  Southern  streams.  But  none  the  less  has  it  a  character  of  its 
own,  which  makes  its  gentle  impression,  day  by  day,  like  a  quiet,  sweet-voiced  woman, 
who  moves  through  life  with  more  power  at  her  gentle  command  than  the  more  beauti- 
ful and  more  brilliant  around  her. 

No  river  in  the  world  has  such  a  length  of  uniform  smooth  current.     In  and  out  it 


ON    THE    OHIO. 


H7 


meanders  for  one  thousand 
and  seven  miles ;  it  is  never 
in  a  hurry ;  it  never  seems 
to  be  going  anywhere  in  par- 
ticular, but  has  time  to  loiter 
about  among  the  coal  and 
iron  mines  of  Pennsylvania ; 
to  ripple  around  the  moun- 
tains of  West  Virginia ;  to 
make  deep  bends  in  order 
to  take  in  the  Southern  riv- 
ers, knowing  well  that  thrifty 
Ohio,  with  her  cornfields  and 
villages,  will  fill  up  all  the 
angles ;  then  it  curves  up 
northward  toward  Cincinnati, 
as  if  to  leave  a  broad  land- 
sweep  for  the  beautiful  blue- 
grass  meadows  of  Kentucky ; 
and  at  North  Bend  away  it 
glides  again  on  a  long  south- 
western stretch,  down,  down, 
along  the  southern  borders  of 
Indiana  and  Illinois,  and  after 
making  a  last  curve  to  re- 
ceive the  twin-rivers  —  the 
Cumberland  and  the  long, 
mountain-born  Tennessee — it 
mixes  its  waters  with  the 
Mississippi,  one  thousand 
miles  above  the  ocean. 

The  Ohio  is  formed 
from  the  junction  of  two 
rivers  as  unlike  as  two  riv- 
ers can  be :  the  northern  pa- 
rent, named  Alleghany,  which 
signifies  "  clear  water,"  is 
a  quick,  transparent  stream, 
coming    down    directly    from 


E 


148 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


the  north  ;  while  the  southern  parent,  named 
Monongahela,  which  signifies  "  Falhng  -  in 
banks,"  comes  even  more  directly  from  the 
south — its  slow,  yellow  tide  augmented  by 
the  waters  of  the  Youghiogheny — a  name 
whose  pronunciation  is  mysterk)us  to  all  but 
the  initiated,  a  shibboleth  of  Western  Penn- 
sylvania.    These  two  rivers,  so  unlike  in  their 

sources,  their  natures,  and  the  people  along  their  banks,  unite  at  Pittsburg,  form- 
ing the  Ohio,  which  from  that  point  to  its  mouth  receives  into  itself  seventy- 
five  tributaries,  crosses  seven  States,  and  holds  in  its  embrace  one  hundred  islands. 
The  hills  along  the  Ohio  are  high,  round-topped,  and  covered  with  verdure ;  in  some 
places  they  rise  abruptly  from  the  water  five  hundred  feet  in  height,  and,  in  others, 
they  lie  back  from  the  river,  leaving  a  strip  of  bottom-land  between,  whose  even, 
green  expanse  is  a  picture  of  plenty  —  the  ideal  fat  fields  which  a  New  -  England 
farmer  can  see  only  in  his  dreams.  On  the  southern  side,  when  the  hills  are  abrupt 
and  there  is  no  bottom-land,  the  original  forest  remains  in  all  its  denseness,  and 
we  see  the  river  and  its  shore  as  the  first  explorers  saw  them,  when,  gliding  down  in 
canoes  almost  two  centuries  ago,  they  gave,  in  their  enthusiasm,  the  name  of  Belle 
Riviere,  which  the  Indians  had  given  long  before.  The  verdure  is  vivid  and  luxuriant ; 
the  round  tops  of  the  swelling  hills  are  like  green  velvet,  so  full  and  even  is  the  foliage; 


ON    THE    OHIO.  149 

and  when,  here  and  there,  a  rocky  ledge  shows  itself  on  the  steep  river-side,  it  is  veiled 
with  vines  and  tufts  of  bright  flowers,  the  red-bud  and  blue  blossoms  growing  in  patches 
so  close  to  the  rock  that  it  looks  as  if  it  were  lapis-lazuli.  The  river  constantly  curves 
and  bends,  knotted  like  a  tangled  silver  thread  over  the  green  country.  Every  turn 
shows  a  new  view :  now  a  vista  of  interval  on  the  north  ;  now  a  wooded  gorge  on  the 
south  ;  now  a  wall  of  hills  in  front,  with  scarcely  a  rift  between  ;  and  now,  as  the  stream 
doubles  upon  its  track,  the  same  hills  astern,  with  sloping  valley-meadows  separating  their 
wooded  sides.  There  is  no  long  look  ahead,  as  on  the  Hudson — no  clear  understanding 
of  the  points  of  the  compass,  as  on  the  broad  St.  Lawrence  ;  the  flag-staff  at  the  bow 
A/eers  constantly ;  the  boat's  course  is  north,  south,  east,  or  west,  as  it  happens,  and  the 
perplexity  is  increased  by  a  way  they  have  of  heading  up-stream  when  stopping,  so  that, 
although  you  may  begin  the  day  with  a  clear  idea  which  side  is  Virginia  and  which 
Ohio,  by  the  time  the  boat  has  finished  the  chassis,  and  turns  necessarily  to  its  first  stop 
and  reached  the  bank,  you  have  lost  your  bearings  entirely,  and  must  either  join  the  be- 
wildered but  persistent  inquirers  who  besiege  the  captain  all  the  way  from  Pittsburg  to 
Louisville  with  the  question,  "Which  side  is  Ohio,  captain,  and  which  side  Kentucky.'*" 
or  else,  abandoning  knowledge  altogether,  and,  admiring  the  scenery  as  it  changes,  float 
on  without  a  geographical  care,  knowing  that  you  will  reach  Louisville  some  time,  ct 
prceterea  nihil.  For  exercise  there  is  always  the  carrying  of  chairs  from  one  side  of  the 
boat  to  the  other,  as  the  frequent  turns  bring  the  afternoon  sunbeams  under  the  awning; 
you  may  walk  several  miles  in  this  way  each  day.  It  is  a  charming  way  of  travelling 
in  the  early  spring,  when  the  shores  are  bright  with  blossoms  and  fresh  with  verdure. 
The  river-steamers,  with  their  wheels  astern  and  their  slight,  open  hulls,  like  summer- 
houses  afloat,  go  slowly  up  and  down,  and  whistle  to  each  other  for  the  channel,  accord- 
ing to  their  load.  The  crews  are  motley,  black  and  white,  and,  as  the  boats  pass  each 
other,  you  can  see  them  lying  on  the  lower  deck,  idle  and  contented,  while  the  jolly 
laugh  of  the  negro  echoes  out  almost  constantly,  for  he  laughs,  as  the  birds  sings,  by  in- 
stinct. On  the  northern  shore  of  the  Upper  Ohio,  the  railroad  to  Pittsburg  is  seen ; 
the  long  trains  of  yellow  cars  rush  by,  their  shrill  whistles  coming  from  the  steep  hill- 
side over  the  water,  as  if  remonstrating  with  the  boats  for  their  lazy  progress.  In  truth, 
the  boats  do  their  work  in  a  leisurely  way.  A  man  appears  on  the  bank  and  signals, 
but  even  he  is  not  in  a  hurry,  finding  a  comfortable  seat  before  he  begins  his  waving ; 
then  the  captain  confers  with  the  mate,  the  deck-hands  gather  on  the  side  to  inspect  the 
man,  and  all  so  slowly  that  you  feel  sure  the  boat  will  not  stop,  and  look  forward  toward 
the  next  bend.  But  the  engine  pauses,  the  steamer  veers  slowly  round,  runs  its  head  into 
the  bank  ;  out  comes  the  plank,  and  out  come  the  motley  crew,  who  proceed  to  bring 
on  board  earthenware,  lumber,  or  whatever  the  waving  man  has  ready  for  them,  while 
he,  still  seated,  watches  the  work,  and  fans  himself  with  his  straw  hat.  To  eyes  accus- 
tomed to  the  ocean,  or  the  deep    lakes    and    rivers   of  the    North,  with    their  long   piers. 


I50  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

solid  docks,  and  steamers  drawing  many  feet  of  water,  this  landing  with  the  ease  of  a 
row-boat  is  new  and  strange.  The  large  towns  have  what  they  call  a  levee — pronounced 
levy — which  is  nothing  more  than  a  rough  stone  pavement  over  the  sloping  bank ;  but 
the  villages  off  the  railroads,  where  the  steamers  generally  stop  for  freight,  have  nothing 
but  an  old  flat-boat  moored  on  the  shore ;  and  many  of  them  have  not  even  this.  The 
large,  handsome,  well-filled  steamboats  run  right  up  into  the  bank,  so  that  even  a  plank 
is  hardly  necessary  for  landing,  and  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  take  your  bag  and  step 
ashore.  The  steamers,  large  as  they  are,  draw  but  a  few  feet  of  water ;  their  bulk  is 
above,  not  below,  the  tide ;  they  float  along  like  a  plank ;  and  there  are  no  waves  to 
dash  over  their  low,  open  decks.  If  they  run  aground,  as  they  often  do  in  the  varying 
channel,  down  comes  a  great  beam,  fastened  with  tackle  like  a  derrick,  on  the  bow,  and, 
this  having  been  pushed  into  the  river-bottom,  the  engine  is  started,  and  the  boat  pried 
off.  If  there  is  a  fog  at  night — as  there  often  is — the  captain  ties  up  his  boat  to  the 
bank,  and  all  hands  go  to  sleep,  which  is  a  safe  if  not  brilliant  course  to  pursue.  In 
this  way  the  voyage  from  Pittsburg  to  Cincinnati  becomes  uncertain  in  duration ;  but 
wherefore  hurry  when  the  Ohio  farms,  the  Virginia  mountains,  and  the  Kentucky  mead- 
ows, are  radiant  with  the  beauty  of  spring  ? 

The  mouth  of  the  Ohio  River  was  first  discovered  in  1680,  but  its  course  was  not 
explored  until  seventy  years  afterward,  its  long  valley  having  remained  an  unknown  land 
when  the  Mississippi  and  the  Red  River  of  the  South,  as  well  as  Lake  Superior  and 
the  Red  River  of  the  North,  had  been  explored  and  delineated  in  maps.  In  1750  the 
French  penetrated  into  the  Ohio  wilderness,  the  first  white  navigators  of  the  Beautiful 
River.  They  claimed  the  basins  of  the  lakes  and  the  Mississippi  and  its  tributaries  as 
New  France,  and  began  a  line  of  forts  stretching  from  their  settlements  in  Canada  to 
their  settlements  in  Louisiana.  The  head-waters  of  the  Ohio,  at  the  junction  of  the 
Alleghany  and  Monongahela,  was  a  commanding  point  in  this  great  chain  of  internal 
navigation,  and,  at  an  early  date,  became  a  bone  of  contention,  for  the  British  were 
jealously  watching  every  advance  of  their  rivals  as  they  pushed  their  dominion  on  tow- 
ard the  south.  In  1 750  Captain  Celeron,  a  French  officer,  was  sent  from  Canada  to 
take  possession  of  the  Ohio-River  Valley ;  this  ceremony  he  performed  by  depositing 
leaden  plates  along  the  shore,  and  then  returned,  satisfied  that  all  was  well.  Three  of 
these  talismans  have  been  discovered  in  modern  times.  The  following  is  a  translation  of 
one  of  the  inscriptions:  "In  the  year  1 750,  we,  Celeron,  commandant  of  a  detachment  by 
Monsieur  the  Marquis  of  Gallisoniere,  commander-in-chief  of  New  France,  to  establish 
tranquillity  in  certain  Indian  villages  of  these  cantons,  have  buried  this  plate  on  the 
Beautiful  River  as  a  monument  of  renewal  of  possession  which  we  have  taken  of  said 
river  and  its  tributaries,  and  of  all  the  land  on  both  sides  ;  inasmuch  as  the  preceding 
kings  of  France  have  engaged  it  and  maintained  it  by  their  arms  and  by  treaties,  espe- 
cially by  those  of  Ryswick,  Utrecht,  and  Aix-la-Chapelle," 


^  ^ 


152 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


These  plates,  buried  with  so  much  ceremony  by  the  officers  of  Louis  XV.,  could 
not  have  exercised  much  moral  influence  through  the  ground,  for,  from  that  time  on, 
there  was  fighting  along  the  Beautiful  River  and  its  tributaries  for  more  than  sixty 
years,  and  no  "  tranquillity "  in  those  "  cantons,"  from  Braddock's  defeat  to  Aaron  Burr's 
conspiracy,  from  George  Washington's  first  military  expedition  to  the  brilliant  campaigns 
of  young  Harrison,  whose  tomb  can  be  seen  from  the  steamer  a  few  miles  below  Cin- 
cinnati. 

In  pursuance  of  their  plan,  the  French,  in  1755,  built  a  fort  near  the  present  site 
of  Pittsburg,  naming  it  Duquesne,  after  the  Governor  of  Canada,  having  taken  pos- 
session of  the  unfinished  work  which  the  Virginians,  on  the  recommendation  of  the 
young  surveyor,  George  Washington,  had  commenced  there.  The  war  at  that  time  going 
on  between  England  and  France  had  been  so  unfortunate  for  the  former  nation  that 
Horace  Walpole  had  said,  "  It  is  time  for  England  to  slip  her  cable  and  float  away  into 
some  unknown  ocean." 

Braddock  had  been  defeated  on  the  Monongahela,  owing  to  his  ignorance  of  Indian 
warfare  ;  he  died  during  the  retreat,  and  was  buried  under  the  road  in  the  line  of  march. 
But  when  Pitt,  the  great  statesman,  took  the  English  helm,  he  changed  the  current  of 
events,  and,  toward  the  close  of  1758,  General  Forbes  took  Fort  Duquesne  from  the 
French,  rebuilt  the  burned  walls,  and  named  it  after  the  Earl  of  Chatham,  a  name  the 
present  city  has  retained. 

After  several  years,  during  which  the  little  post  maintained  a  precarious  existence  in 


The  Ohio,   from  Marietta. 


ON    THE    OHIO. 


153 


the  wilderness,  Pontiac's  conspir- 
acy burst  upon  the  country,  and 
Fort  Pitt,  with  its  handful  of 
men,  was  closely  invested  by  the 
Indians,  who  had  succeeded  in 
capturing  nine  of  the  British 
forts     in     the    west,    Detroit     and 

Niagara  alone  escaping.  Colonel  Bouquet,  a  Swiss  officer,  whose  flowery  name  bright- 
ens the  sombre  pages  of  Ohio-River  history,  as  his  deeds  brightened  the  sombre  reality, 
came  to  the  rescue  of  Fort  Pitt,  supplied  the  garrison  with  provisions,  and  dispersed  the 
Indians.  Soon  after  this  the  French  gave  up  their  claim  to  the  territory,  and  then  began 
the  contest  between  the  Americans  and  the  British.  But  the  river-country  was  far  away 
in  a  wilderness  beyond  the  mountains;  and  in  1772  General  Gage,  tKe  commander-in- 
chief  of  the  British  forces,  sent  orders  to  abandon  Fort  Pitt,  and  accordingly  the  post, 
which  had  cost  the  English  Government  sixty  thousand  pounds,  and  which  was  designed 
to  secure  forever  British  empire  on  the  Beautiful  River,  passed  into  the  hands  of  the 
Americans. 

The  present  city  of  Pittsburg  has  the  picturesque  aspect  of  a  volcano,  owing  to  its 
numerous  manufactories  ;  a  cloud  of  smoke  rests  over  it,  and  at  night  it  is  illuminated 
by  the  glow  and  flash  of  the  iron-mills  filling  its  valley  and  stretching  up  its  hill-sides^ 
restmg  not  day  or  night,  but  ever  ceaselessly  gleaming,  smoking,  and  roaring.  Looking 
down  on  Pittsburg  at  night  from  the  summit  of  its  surrounding  hills,  the  city,  with  its 
red  fires  and  smoke,  seems  satanic.      Quiet  streets  there  are,  and  pleasant  residences  ;   the 

91 


154 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


■  ■  :"f\ 

\\  [|[iiiiihiilii|ilTii';iiiiiiiii!iyi|iiiirii.ii|i!'iiiili!i'i 


pa 

O 


O 


two  rivers  winding  down  on 
either  side,  and  uniting  at  the 
point  of  the  peninsula,  the 
graceful  bridges,  the  water- 
craft  of  all  kinds  lying  at 
the  levee,  some  coming  from 
far  New  Orleans,  and  others 
bound  up  the  slack  -  water 
into  the  interior,  are  all  pict- 
uresque. But  it  is  the  smoke 
and  the  fires  of  Pittsburg  that 
give  it  its  character.  Imagina- 
tive people,  beholding  it  by 
night,  are  moved  to  sulphur- 
ous quotations,  and  bethink 
themselves  of  Dante's  "  In- 
ferno;" and,  as  Mr.  Brooke, 
of  Middlemarch,  would  say, 
"  that  sort  of  thing." 

Anthony  Trollope  wrote, 
"  It  is  the  blackest  place  I 
ever  saw,  but  its  very  black- 
ness is  picturesque."  Parton 
said,  "It  is  all  hell  with  the 
lid  taken  off."  In  the  face 
of  the  facts  to  the  contrary, 
you  fancy  that  Pittsburg  must 
be  a  wicked  city  ;  and,  as  the 
boat  glides  away,  verses  come 
to  your  memory  about  "  the 
smoke  of  her  torment  ascend- 
ing forever  and  ever."  What 
a  grand,  lurid  picture  Tur- 
ner, Ruskin's  art-god,  would 
have  made  of  Pittsburg  by 
night ! 

The  river  starts  away 
in  a  northwestern  direction. 
On   its  banks,  nineteen  miles 


ON    THE    OHIO.  155 

from  Pittsburg,  is  the  quaint  German  town  of  Economy,  founded  by  Father  Rapp,  a 
German  pietist,  who  emigrated  with  a  colony  from  Wlirtemberg  in  1804.  The  little 
band  of  believers,  in  what  seems  to  us  a  dreary  creed,  made  one  or  two  changes  of 
location ;  but,  after  selling  their  possessions  in  Indiana  to  the  well-known  Robert  Owen, 
a  man  of  kindred  enthusiasm  but  opposite  belief,  they  came  to  the  Ohio  River,  where 
their  village,  with  its  Old-World  houses,  tiled  roofs,  grass-grown  streets,  and  quiet  air, 
seems  hardly  to  belong  to  this  practical,  busy,  American  world.  Economy  is  a  still 
abode  of  the  old  ;  there  are  no  homes,  no  children  there,  only  gray-haired  brothers  and 
sisters,  who  are  waiting  for  a  literal  realization  of  the  promises  of  the  millennium.  The 
society  is  rich  in  land,  oil-wells,  and  other  possessions,  all  held  in  common  ;  and  the 
thought  arises.  Who  is  to  inherit  this  wealth  when  the  last  aged  brother  has  been  buried 
in  the  moundless,  stoneless  cemetery,  where  the  pilgrims  lie  unmarked  under  the  even 
sod  '^ 

The  course  of  the  river  here  is  dotted  with  old  derricks — tombstones  of  high  hopes ; 
in  the  little  ravines,  where  the  creeks  come  down  to  the  Ohio,  these  gaunt  frameworks 
stand  thick,  like  masts  in  a  harbor,  as  far  as  you  can  see.  They  are  pathetic  spectres  in 
their  way,  for  they  tell  a  story  of  disappointment.  One  would  suppose  that  the  great 
beams  were  worth  taking  down  ;  but,  generally,  the  buildings  and  engine-house  are  all 
complete,  abandoned  just  as  they  stood. 

The  State  of  Ohio  reaches  the  river  at  Columbiana  County.  This  was  a  fancy 
name,  formed  from  Columbus  and  Anna.  One  asks,  "  Why  Anna,  more  than  Maria  or 
Jane  } "  and  this,  no  doubt,  was  the  feeling  of  that  member  of  the  Ohio  Legislature, 
who,  pending  its  adoption,  rose  and  proposed  the  addition  of  Maria  as  more  euphonious, 
thus  making  a  grand  total  of  Columbianamaria !  Opposite,  as  the  river  turns  abruptly 
down  toward  the  south,  is  the  queer  little  strip  of  land  which  Virginia  thrusts  up  toward 
the  north,  the  ownership  of  which  is  probably  due  to  some  of  the  fierce  quarrels  and 
compromises  over  land-titles  which  came  after  the  Revolution,  and  made  almost  as  much 
trouble  as  the  great  struggle  itself  This  northern  arm  is  called  the  Pan-Handle,  Vir- 
ginia, undivided,  being  the  pan.  A  railroad  going  west  from  Pittsburg  has  taken  the 
name,  much  to  the  bewilderment  of  uninitiated  travellers,  who  frequently  called  it  Pen- 
Handle,  with  a  vague  idea  that  it  has  something  to  do  w^ith  stocks  and  accounts. 

Three  miles  below  Steubenville  was  an  old  Mingo  town,  the  residence  of  I^ogan, 
the  Mingo  chief  This  celebrated  Indian  was  the  son  of  a  Cayuga  chieftain  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, who  was  converted  to  Christianity  by  the  Moravian  missionaries,  the  only  rivals 
of  the  Jesuit  fathers  in  the  West.  The  Cayuga  chief,  greatly  admiring  James  Logan, 
the  secretary  of  the  province,  named  his  son  after  him.  Logan  took  no  part  in  the  old 
French  War,  and  remained  a  firm  friend  of  the  whites  until  the  causeless  murder  of  all 
his  family  on  the  Ohio  River,  above  Steubenville.  From  that  time  his  hand  was  against 
the  white    man,  although,  from    the    curt    records    of  the    day,  we    learn   that  he  was  sin- 


^  "  *" ' "  »*C     *w  '^^ 


SCENES     ON     THE     OHIO,     ABOVE     AND     BELOW     CINCINNATI. 


ON    THE    OHIO.  157 

gularly  magnanimous  to  all  white  prisoners.  The  last  years  of  Logan  were  lonely.  He 
wandered  from  tribe  to  tribe,  and  was  finally  murdered  by  one  of  his  own  race  on  the 
banks  of  the  Detroit  River,  as  he  sat  before  a  camp-fire,  with  his  blanket  over  his  head, 
buried  in  thought.  But  his  words  live  after  him.  Logan's  speech  still  holds  its  place  in 
the  school  reading-books  by  the  side  of  the  best  efforts  of  English  orators. 

The  river,  as  it  stretches  southward,  is  here  fair  enough  to  justify  its  name.  The 
Virginia  shore  is  wild  and  romantic,  full  of  associations  of  the  late  war,  when  its  moun- 
tain-roads were  a  raiding-ground,  and  its  campaigns  a  series  of  cavalry-chases,  without 
those  bloody  combats  that  darkened  the  States  farther  south.  There  was  not  much 
glory  for  either  side  in*  Western  Virginia,  if  glory  means  death  ;  but  there  were  many 
bold  rides  and  many  long  dashes  over  the  border  and  back  again,  as  the  dwellers  in  the 
rambling  old  river  farm-houses,  with  their  odd  little  enclosed  upper  piazzas,  know.  At 
Wheeling  the  national  road,  a  relic  of  stage-coach  days,  crosses  the  river  on  its  west- 
ward way.  This  turnpike  was  constructed  by  the  national  government,  beginning  at 
Cumberland,  in  Maryland,  crossing  the  mountains,  and  intended  to  run  indefinitely  on 
westward  as  the  country  became  settled.  But  railroads  took  away  its  glory,  and  the  oc- 
casional traveller  now  finds  it  difficult  to  get  an  explanation  of  this  neglected  work,  its 
laborious  construction  and  solid  stone  bridges  striking  him  as  he  passes  through  Central 
Ohio,  although  the  careless  inhabitants  neither  know  nor  care  about  its  origin.  In  the 
Old  World  it  would  pass  as  a  Roman  road. 

Marietta,  in  Washington  County,  Ohio,  is  the  oldest  town  in  the  State.  It  is  situ- 
ated in  the  domains  of  the  New-England  "  Ohio  Company,"  which  was  originally  organ- 
ized to  check  the  advance  of  the  French  down  the  river.  Marietta  has  a  picturesque 
position,  lying  in  a  deep  bend  where  the  Muskingum  flows  into  the  Ohio,  with  a  slender, 
curved  island  opposite,  like  a  green  crescent,  and,  beyond,  the  high,  rolling  hills  of  Vir- 
ginia on  the  southern  shore.  The  Ohio  Company  owned  one  million  five  hundred 
thousand  acres  along  the  river;  and,  in  November,  1787,  they  sent  out  their  first  colony, 
forty-seven  men,  who,  taking  Braddock's  road,  originally  an  Indian  trail  over  the  moun- 
tains, and  trudging  on  patiently  all  winter,  arrived  at  the  Youghiogheny,  or  "  Yoh,"  as 
they  called  it,  in  April,  and,  launching  a  flat-boat,  sailed  down  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Muskingum,  where  they  made  a  settlement,  naming  it  Marietta,  in  honor  of  Marie 
Antoinette.  These  pioneers  were  New-Englanders ;  their  flat-boat  was  called  the  May- 
flower ;  and  their  first  act  on  landing  was,  to  write  a  set  of  laws  and  nail  them  to  a 
tree.  Washington  said  of  them,  "No  colony  in  America  was  settled  under  such  favor- 
able auspices  as  that  on  the  Muskingum."  A  little  stockade-post,  called  Fort  Harmar, 
had  been  built  here  two  years  before.  It  was  occupied  by  a  detachment  of  United 
States  troops,  who  did  good  service  in  protecting  the  infant  colony  from  the  Indians, 
and  then  moved  on  toward  Cincinnati.  Emigrants,  soldiers,  and  Indians,  are  always,  like 
poor  Jo,  "moving  on."      The    little  village    on    the    bank    of  the    Muskingum    bears    the 


158  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

name  of  the  old  post,  Harmar.  At  Marietta  were  found  the  remains  of  an  ancient  forti- 
fication— a  square,  enclosed  by  a  wall  of  earth  ten  feet  high,  with  twelve  entrances,  con- 
taining a  covert  way,  bulwarks  to  defend  the  gate-ways,  and  various  works  of  elaborate 
construction,  including  a  moat  fifteen  feet  wide,  defended  by  a  parapet.  These  are 
supposed  to  belong  to  the  era  of  the  mound-builders.  At  this  little  inland  settlement 
ship-building  was  at  one  period  the  principal  occupation,  and  the  town  was  made  a  port 
of  clearance.  There  is  a  curious  incident  connected  with  this.  In  1806  a  ship,  built  at 
Marietta,  sailed  to  New  Orleans  with  a  cargo  of  pork  ;  and,  as  at  that  time  the  Ameri- 
can vessels  were  the  carriers  for  the  world,  it  went  on  to  England  with  cotton,  and 
thence  to  St.  Petersburg,  where  the  officer  of  the  port  seized  4;he  little  ship,  declaring 
that  its  papers  were  fraudulent,  since  there  was  no  such  seaport  as  Marietta.  But  the 
captain,  with  some  difficulty  procuring  a  map,  pointed  out  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi, 
and  traced  its  course  up  to  the  Ohio,  and  thence  on  to  Marietta.  The  astonished  officer, 
when  this  seaport  in  the  heart  of  a  continent  was  shown  to  him,  allowed  the  adventurous 
little  vessel  to  go  free.  Thirteen  miles  below  Marietta  is  Parkersburg,  in  West  Virginia ; 
the  old  Belpre,  or  Beautiful  Meadow,  in  Ohio,  opposite ;  and  near  by,  in  the  river, 
Blennerhassett's  Island,  which  has  gone  into  history  with  Aaron  Burr. 

At  Parkersburg  the  Little  Kanawha  flows  into  the  Ohio,  which  is  here  crossed  by 
the  massive  iron  bridge  of  the  Baltimore  and  Ohio  Railroad.  Farther  on  is  Gallipolis, 
where,  in  1 790,  a  French  colony  laid  out  a  village  of  eighty  cabins,  protected  by  a 
stockade,  and,  even  in  the  face  of  starvation,  took  time  to  build  a  ballroom,  and  danced 
there  twice  a  week.  Anxious  to  get  away  from  the  horrors  of  the  Revolution,  ignorant 
of  the  country,  deceived  by  land-speculators,  these  poor  Frenchmen — carvers,  gilders, 
coach-  and  peruke-makers,  five  hundred  persons  in  all,  with  only  ten  laborers  among 
them — sold  all  they  had,  and  embarked  for  the  New  World,  believing  that  a  paradise 
was  ready  for  them  on  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  river.  They  named  their  village  the 
City  of  the  French  ;  and,  unfitted  as  they  were  for  frontier-life,  they  worked  with  a  will, 
if  not  with  skill.  Early  accounts  give  a  ludicrous  picture  of  their  attempts  to  clear  the 
land.  A  number  of  them  would  assemble  around  some  giant  sycamore ;  part  would  pull 
at  the  branches  with  ropes;  and  part  would  hack  at  the  trunk  all  around  until  the 
ground  was  covered  with  chips,  and  the  tree  gashed  from  top  to  bottom  ;  a  whole  day 
would  be  spent  in  the  task,  and,  when  at  last  the  tree  fell,  it  generally  carried  with 
it  some  of  its  awkward  executioners.  To  get  rid  of  a  fallen  tree  they  would  make  a 
deep  trench  alongside,  and,  with  many  a  shout,  push  it  in  and  bury  it  out  of  sight — 
certainly  a  novel  method  of  clearing  land.  Little  is  now  left  to  show  the  French  origin 
of  Gallipolis  save  a  few  French  names. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Great  Kanawha,  on  the  Virginia  side,  is  Point  Pleasant.  This 
stream  is  the  principal  river  of  West  Virginia,  rising  in  the  mountains  and  winding 
through  a  picturesque  country  northward  to  the  Ohio.      Point    Pleasant  was   the    site    of 


i6o 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Fourth   Street,    Cincinnati. 


the  bloodi- 
est Indian 
battle  of  the 
river-valley,  when, 
in  1774,  one  thou- 
sand Americans 
were  attacked  by 
the  flower  of  the 
Western  tribes  un- 
der the  chieftain 
Cornstalk.  The 
battle  raged  all 
day,  but  the  In- 
dians  were    finally 


overpowered,    and    retreated    to    their    towns    on    the    Chillicothe    plains. 

Kentucky,  which  comes  up  to  the  Ohio  at  the  mouth  of  the  big  Sandy  River,  is 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  States  in  the  country.  It  is  wild  without  being  rugged,  lux- 
uriant but  not  closely  cultivated  ;  once  seen,  its  rolling  meadows  are  never  forgotten.  It 
is  like  some  beautiful  wild  creature  which  you  cannot  entirely  tame,  in  spite  of  its 
gentleness. 

Stretching  back  from  the  river   are  vast    parks ;   there    is    no    underbrush,  few  fences, 


x 


•    "X 

V, 


^ 


'^ 


ON    THE    OHIO. 


i6i 


and  few  grain-fields ;  the  trees  are  majestic,  each  one  by  itself,  and  here  and  there  stands 
a  bold  hill,  or  a  river  comes  sweeping  over  a  limestone-bed.  It  is  the  grazing-country 
of  America ;  the  wealth  of  its  people  is  in  their  flocks  and  herds ;  and  there  is  a  tradi- 
tion that  they  love  their  horses  better  than  their  sweethearts  (let  us  rescue  that  last 
sweet  old  word  from  misuse).  Some  miles  back  from  the  river  lies  the  famous  Blue- 
Grass  Country,  so  called  from  the  blue  tinge  of  the  grass  when  in  blossom.  This  dis- 
trict embraces  five  counties,  the  loveliest  in  Kentucky,  where  you  may  ride  for  miles 
through  a  park  dotted  with  herds,  single  trees,  and  here  and  there  a  grove  shadowing 
the  rolling,  green  turf     Until   1747  no  Anglo-Saxon  foot    had  touched    Kentucky,  whose 


''W^^  % 


The    Rhine." 


forests  were  the  Indians'  favorite  hunting-ground ;  the  immigration,  when  it  did  com- 
mence, came  from  Virginia  and  Maryland.  Daniel  Boone  is  the  type  of  the  Kentucky 
hunter.  Leaving  North  Carolina  in  1769,  he  came  westward  to  examine  the  new  hunt- 
ing-fields, and,  after  three  years  of  wandering,  he  returned  to  bring  his  family  to  the 
wild  home  he  had  chosen.  The  country  is  full  of  legends  of  Boone,  and  his  name 
lingers  on  rocks  and  streams.  The  old  man  became  restless  under  the  growing  civiliza- 
tion, and  went  to  Missouri,  where  he  could  hunt  undisturbed.  He  died,  almost  with  gun 
in  hand,  in  1820,  at  the  age  of  eighty-nine.  A  prophet  is  not  always  without  honor  in 
his  own    country :   the    people    of   Kentucky  brought    back    the   body  of  the   old   hunter. 


1 62 


PIC  TURESO  UE    A  ME  RICA 


and  interred  it  on  the  banks  of  the  river  he  loved  in  life — in   Kain-tuck-ee,  the   "  Land  of 
the  Cane." 

Cincinnati,  the  Queen  of  the  West,  was  first  settled  in  1778.  It  lies  in  Symmes's 
Purchase — land  stretching  between  the  Great  and  Little  Miami,  called  in  early  descrip- 
tions the  Miami  Country.  Judge  Symmes's  nephew  and  namesake  was  the  author  of 
the  theory  of  "  Concentric  Spheres,"  a  theory  popularly  rendered  as  "  Symmes's  Hole." 
He  was  buried  on  the  Purchase,  and  his  monument  is  surmounted  by  a  globe,  open,  ac- 
cording to  his  theory,  at  the  poles.  Cincinnati — too  generally  pronounced  Cincinnater — 
received  its  high-sounding  name  from  General  St.  Clair,  in  honor  of  a  military  society  to 


View    on    the    Rhine. 


which  he  belonged.  The  general  rescued  the  infant  town  from  a  worse  fate,  since  it  was 
then  laboring  under  the  title  of  Losantiville — Z,  the  first  letter  of  the  river  Licking, 
which  flows  into  the  Ohio,  on  the  Kentucky  side ;  os,  the  mouth ;  o.nti,  opposite  to ; 
and  ville,  a  city.     The  author  of  this  conglomerate  did  not  long  survive. 

Cincinnati  was  founded  in  romance.  There  were  two  other  rival  settlements  on  the 
river,  and  all  three  were  striving  for  the  possession  of  the  United  States  fort.  North 
Bend  was  selected,  the  work  begun,  when  one  of  the  settlers,  observing  that  the  bright 
eyes  of  his  wife  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the  commanding  officer,  moved  to  Cin- 
cmnati.      But  immediately  Cincinnati  was  discovered  to  be  the  better   site,  and    materials 


ON    THE    OHIO. 


163 


and  men  were  moved  up  the  river  without  delay.  North  Bend  was  left  to  its  fate,  and 
Cincinnati,  owing  to  the  bright  eyes,  obtained  an  advantage  over  her  rivals  from  that 
time,  steadily  progressing  toward  her  present  population,  which,  including  her  suburbs,  is 
nearly  four  hundred  thousand.  The  city  proper  is  closely  built  in  solid  blocks,  rising  in 
several  plateaus  back  from  the  river ;   it  is  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  hills,  throus"h  which 


The   Tyler-Davidson    Fountain. 


flow  the  Little  Miami  and  Mill  Creek.  There  are  many  fine  buildings  in  Cincinnati; 
but  the  beauty  of  the  city  is  in  its  suburbs,  where,  upon  the  Clifton  Hills,  are  the  most 
picturesque  residences  of  the  entire  West — beautiful,  castle-like  mansions,  with  sweeping 
parks  and  a  wide  outlook  over  the  valley.  The  people  of  Cincinnati  do  not  live  in  their 
city ;  they  attend  to  their  business  affairs  there  and  retire  out  to  the  hills  when  work 
is    over.      They  have    an    air    of  calm    contentment    and    indifference    to    the    rest    of  the 


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ON    THE    OHIO.  -        165 

world ;  they  know  they  are  masters  of  the  river.  Pittsburg  is  lurid  and  busy ;  Louis- 
ville is  fair  and  indolent ;  but  Cincinnati  is  the  queen.  She  has  no  specialty  like  Buffalo 
with  her  elevators,  Louisville  with  her  bourbon  -  warehouses,  Cleveland  with  her  oil-re- 
fineries, and  Pittsburg  with  her  iron-mills ;  or,  rather,  she  has  them  all,  and  therefore  any 
one  is  not  noticeable.  Within  the  city  is  one  picturesque  locality — the  German  quar- 
ter— known  as  "Over  the  Rhine,"  the  Miami  Canal  representing  the  Rhine.  Here  the 
German  signs,  the  flaxen-haired  children,  the  old  women  in  'kerchiefs  knitting  at  the 
doors,  the  lager-beer,  the  window-gardens  and  climbing  vines,  the  dense  population,  and, 
at  evening,  the  street-music  of  all  kinds,  are  at  once  foreign  and  southern.  In  the 
centre  of  the  city  is  the  Tyler-Davidson  Fountain — one  of  the  most  beautiful  fountains 
in  the  world.  The  figures  are  bronze,  cast  at  Munich,  Bavaria,  at  a  cost  of  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  The  fountain  is  a  memorial,  presented  to  the  city  by  one  of  its 
millionnaires,  in  memory  of  a  relative.  It  bears  the  inscription,  "  To  the  People  of 
Cincinnati ; "  and  the  people  are  constantly  drinking  from  the  four  drinking-fountains  at 
the  corners,  or  looking  up  to  the  grand  goddess  above,  who,  from  her  beneficent,  out- 
stretched hands,  seems  to  be  sending  rain  down  upon  a  thirsty  Jand. 

Below  Cincinnati  are  the  vineyards,  stretching  up  the  hills  along  the  northern  shore. 
Floating  down  the  river  in  the  spring  and  seeing  the  green  ranks  of  the  vines,  one  is 
moved  to  exclaim,  "  This  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all,"  forgetting  that  the  mountains  of 
Virginia  and  the  parks  of  Kentucky  have  already  called  forth  the  same  words.  The 
native  Catawba  wine  of  the  West  was  first  made  in  Cincinnati,  and  the  juices  of  the 
vineyards  of  the  Beautiful  River  have  gained  an  honorable  name  among  wines. 

Bellevue,  in  Kentucky,  and  Patriot,  in  Indiana,  are  charming  specimens  of  river- 
scenery,  the  latter  showing  the  hill-side  vineyards. 

The  navigation  of  the  Ohio  is  obstructed  by  tow-heads  and  sand-bars,  and  by  the 
remarkable  changes  in  its  depth,  there  being  a  variation  of  fifty  feet  between  high  and 
low  water-mark.  In  the  early  days  a  broad  river  was  the  safest  highway,  as  the  forests 
on  shore  concealed  a  treacherous  foe  who  coveted  the  goods  of  the  immigrant ;  hence 
once  over  the  mountains,  families  purchased  a  flat-boat  and  floated  down-stream,  hugging 
the  Kentucky  shore.  These  Kentucky  flats  were  made  of  green  oak-plank,  fastened  by 
wooden  pins  to  a  frame  of  timber,  and  calked  with  tow,  and,  upon  reaching  their  desti- 
nation, the  immigrants  used  the  material  in  building  their  cabins.  As  villages  grew  up 
larger  craft  were  introduced,  keel-boats  and  barges,  the  former  employing  ten  hands,  the 
latter  fifty ;  both  had  a  mast,  a  square-sail,  and  coils  of  cordage,  known  as  cordilles,  and 
when  the  wind  was  adverse  they  were  propelled  by  long  poles,  the  crew  walking  to  and 
fro,  bending  over  their  toilsome  track. 

The  boatmen  of  the  Ohio  were  a  hardy,  merry  race,  poling  their  unwieldy  craft 
slowly  along,  or  gliding  on  under  sail,  sounding  a  bugle  as  they  approached  a  village, 
and  shouting  out  their  compliments  to  the  girls,  who,  attracted  by  the  music,  came  down 


1 66 


PIC  rURESO  UE    A  ME  RICA. 


to  the  shore  to  see  them  pass.  They  wore  red  handkerchiefs  on  their  heads,  turban- 
fashion,  and  talked  in  a  jargon  of  their  own,  half  French,  half  Indian  ;  a  violin  formed 
part  of   their  equipment ;    and    at    night,  drawn    up    at    some  village,  they  danced    on    the 


Jeffersonville,    Indiana. 

flat  tops  of  their  boats — the  original  minstrels.  In  this  way,  as  the  old  song  has  it, 
"  They  glided  down  the  river,  the  O-hi-o."  At  the  present  day  these  flats,  or  arks,  are 
still  seen,  propelled  with  great  sweeps  instead  of  poles.  They  keep  out  of  the  steamboat 
channel,  and  lead  a  vagabond  life,  trading  at  the  settlements  where  the  steamers  do  not 
stop.  They  are  seen  drawn  up  in  the  shallows,  all  hands  smoking  or  lying  half  asleep, 
as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as  work  in  the  world.  A  canal-boat  is  a  high-toned,  in- 
dustrious boat  compared  with  one  of  these  arks  ;  for  a  canal-boat  is  bound  somewhere, 
and  goes  on  time,  although   it    ma}^  be    slow  time,  while    the    ark    is    bound    nowhere    in 


New    Albany,    Indiana. 


particular,  and  is  as  likely  as  not  to  take  a  whole  summer  for  one  trip  down  the  river. 
The  majority  of  the  Ohio-River  craft  are  tow-boats,  black,  puffing  monsters,  mere  grimy 
shells  to  cover  a  powerful  engine,     If  tow  means  to  pull,  then  the  name   of  tow-boat    is 


ON    THE    OHIO,  167 

a  misnomer;  for  these  boats  never  pull,  but  always  push.  Their  tows  go  in  front,  two 
or  three  abreast,  heavy,  open  flat-boats,  filled  with  coal  or  rafts  of  timber,  and  behind 
comes  the  steamer  pushing  them  slowly  along,  her  great  stern-wheel  churning  up  the 
water  behind,  and  her  smoke-stacks  belching  forth  black  streams.  Negroes  do  most  of 
the  work  on  the  river,  and  enliven  toil  with  their  antics.  A  night-landing  is  picturesque ; 
an  iron  basket,  filled  with  flaming  pine-knots,  is  hung  out  on  the  end  of  a  pole,  and 
then,  down  over  the  plank  stream  the  negro  hands,  jerking  themselves  along  with  song 
and  joke,  carrying  heavy  freight  with  a  kind  of  uncouth,  dancing  step,  and  stopping  to 
laugh  with  a  freedom  that  would  astonish  the  crew  of  a  lake-propeller  accustomed  to  do 
the  same  work  in  half  the  time  under  the  sharp  eye  of  a  laconic  mate. 

Jeffersonville,  Indiana,  is  a  thriving  town  nearly  opposite  Louisville.  Here  is  the 
only  fall  in  the  Ohio  River — a  descent  of  twenty-three  feet  in  two  miles,  a  very  mild 
cataract,  hardly  more  than  a  rapid.  Such  as  it  is,  however,  it  obstructs  navigation  at 
low  stages  of  water,  and  a  canal  has  been  cut  around  it  through  the  solid  rock.  New 
Albany,  Indiana,  a  few  miles  below,  is  an  important  and  handsomely-situated  town. 

Louisville — pronounced  Loiiyville  at  the  North,  but  Lojiisville,  with  the  j-  carefully 
sounded,  by  the  citizens  themselves — is  a  large,  bright  city,  the  pride  of  Kentucky.  It 
was  first  settled  by  Virginians  in  1773,  and  remained  for  some  time  under  the  protec- 
tion of  the  mother-State ;  even  now,  to  have  been  born  in  Virginia  is  a  Louisville 
patent  of  nobility.  The  city  is  built  on  a  sloping  plane  seventy  feet  above  low-water 
mark,  with  broad  streets  lined  with  stately  stone  warehouses  on  and  near  the  river,  and 
beautiful  residences  farther  back.  Louisville  has  a  more  Southern  aspect  than  Pittsburg 
and  Cincinnati.  Here  you  meet  great  wains  piled  with  cotton-bales;  the  windows  are 
shaded  with  awnings ;  and  the  residences  swarm  with  servants — turbaned  negro  cooks, 
who  are  artists  in  their  line ;  waiting-maids  with  the  stately  manners  of  their  old  mis- 
tresses ;  and  innumerable  children — eight  or  ten  pairs  of  hands  to  do  the  work  for  one 
family. 

In  the  Court-House  is  a  life-like  statue  of  Henry  Clay,  a  man  whose  memory  Ken- 
tucky delights  to  honor.  His  grave  is  at  Lexington — the  most  stately  tomb  in  the 
West,  if  not  in  all  America.  At  Louisville,  also,  begin  the  double  graves  of  the  late 
war.  The  beautiful  cemetery  contains  two  plats  where  the  dead  armies  lie — Confederate 
soldiers  on  one  side.  Union  soldiers  on  the  other.  The  little  wooden  head-boards  tell 
sad  stories :  "  Aged  twenty-two  ; "  "  aged  twenty-three."  Often  there  are  whole  rows  who 
died  on  the  same  day,  the  wounded  of  some  Southwestern  battle,  who  came  as  far  as 
Louisville  in  the  crowded  freight-cars,  and  died  there  in  the  hospital.  While  the  fathers 
and  mothers,  while  the  widows  of  the  dead  soldiers  live,  there  will  continue  to  be  two 
Decoration  Days.  But  the  next  generation  will  lay  its  wreaths  upon  all  the  graves  alike, 
and  gradually  the  day  will  grow  into  a  holy  memory  of  all  the  dead,  citizen  and  soldier, 
as  Time  sends  the  story  of  the  war  back  into  the  annals  of  the  past. 


THE    PLAINS    AND    THE    SIERRAS. 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS   BY   THOMAS   MORAN. 


Witches'    Rocks,  Weber   Canon. 


-T-HE    present    banishes    the    past    so    quickly    in    this    busy    continent    that    to    the 

i       youncrer  generation  of  to-day  it    already   seems    a    very  dreamy  and    distant    heroic 

age  when  nL  went  out  upon  the  great  prairies  of  ^the  West    as    upon    a    dreaded    kmd 


THE    PLAINS    AND     THE    SIERRAS.  169 

of  unknown  sea.  Even  now,  perhaps,  there  is  a  little  spice  of  adventure  for  the  quieter 
New-England  citizen,  as  he  gathers  around  him  the  prospective  contents  of  a  comfortable 
travelling-trunk,  and  glances  at  his  long  slip  of  printed  railway-tickets,  preparatory  to 
thundering  westward  to  look  out  at  the  great  stretch  of  the  Plains  from  the  ample 
window  of  a  perfectly-upholstered  sleeping-car;  but  how  remote  the  day  seems  when 
men  tightened  their  pistol-belts  and  looked  to  their  horses,  and  throbbed  (if  they  were 
young)  with  something  of  the  proud  consciousness  of  explorers ;  and  so  set  out,  from 
the  frontier  settlement  of  civilization,  upon  that  great  ocean  of  far-reaching,  level  grass- 
land and  desert,  to  cross  which  was  a  deed  to  be  talked  of  like  the  voyage  of  the  old 
Minyse!  A  single  title  of  Mr.  Harte's  has  preserved  for  us  the  whole  spirit  of  those 
seemingly  old-time  journeys ;  he  has  called  the  travellers  "  the  Argonauts  of  '49,"  and  in 
this  one  phrase  lies  the  complete  picture  of  that  already  dim  and  distant  venture — the 
dreaded  crossing  of  "  the  Plains." 

But,  although  the  "prairie  schooner" — the  great  white-tented  wagon  of  the  gold- 
seekers  and  the  pioneers — and  its  adjuncts,  and  the  men  that  rode  beside  it,  have  disap- 
peared, we  cannot  change  the  Plains  themselves  in  a  decade.  We  encroach  a  little  upon 
their  borders,  it  may  be,  and  learn  of  a  narrow  strip  of  their  surface,  but  they  them- 
selves remain  practically  untouched  by  the  civilization  that  brushes  over  them  ;  they  close 
behind  the  scudding  train  like  the  scarce  broader  ocean  behind  the  stoutest  steamer  of 
the  moderns — a  vast  expanse  as  silent  and  unbroken  and  undisturbed  as  it  lay  centuries 
before  ever  rail  or  keel  was  dreamed  of  It  is  our  point  of  view  that  has  changed,  not 
they ;  and  for  all  of  us  there  remain  the  same  wonders  to  be  looked  upon  in  this  great 
half-known  region  as  were  there  for  the  earliest  Indian  fighter — the  first  of  the  adven- 
turous souls  that  went  mine-hunting  toward  the  Golden  Gate. 

Our  time,  it  is  true,  attaches  a  different  signification  to  the  title,  "the  Plains,"  from 
that  which  it  bore  little  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago.  In  reality,  there  extends 
from  the  very  central  portion  of  the  now  well-peopled  Western  States  to  the  very  foot 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains  one  vast  reach  of  prairie — the  most  remarkable,  in  all  its 
features,  on  the  globe.  On  the  eastern  portion  of  this  are  now  the  thoroughly  settled, 
grain-bearing  States — full  of  fertile  farms  and  great  cities,  and  no  longer  connected  in 
our  minds,  as  they  were  in  those  of  men  a  generation  before  us,  with  the  untried  lands 
of  exploration  and  adventure.  For  us,  the  boundary  of  the  region  of  the  comparatively 
unknown  has  been  driven  back  beyond  the  Mississippi,  beyond  the  Missouri,  even  ;  and 
the  Eastern  citizen,  be  he  ever  so  thoroughly  the  town-bred  man,  is  at  home  until  he 
crosses  the  muddy,  sluggish  water  that  flows  under  Council  Bluffs,  and  hardly  passes 
out  of  the  land  of  most  familiar  objects  until  the  whistle  of  the  "  Pacific  express,"  that 
carries  him,  is  no  longer  heard  in  Omaha,  and  he  is  fairly  under  way  on  the  great  level 
of   Nebraska. 

The    route    of  the    Pacific    Railway  is    not    only  that  which    for    many  years  will    be 


170 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


the  most  familiar  path  across  the  Plains,  and  not  only  that  which  passes  nearest  to  the 
well-known  emigrant-road  of  former  days,  but  it  is  also  the  road  which,  though  it 
misses  the  nobler  beauties  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  shows  the  traveller  the  prairie  itself 

in  perhaps  as  true  and  characteristic 
an  aspect  as  could  be  found  on  any 
less-tried  course.  It  passes  through 
almost  every  change  of  prairie  scenery 
— the  fertile  land  of  the  east  and  the 
alkali  region  farther  on  ;  past  the  his- 
toric outposts  of  the  old  pioneers ; 
among  low  buttes  and  infrequent 
"islands;"  and  over  a  country  abound- 
ing in  points  of  view  from  which  one 
may  take  in  all  the  features  that 
mark  this  portion  of  the  continent. 
To  the  south,  the  great  level  expanse 
is  hardly  interrupted  before  the  shore 
of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  is  reached, 
and  the  Mexican  boundary;  to  the 
north,  the  hills  and  high  table-land 
of  the  Upper  Missouri  are  the  only 
breaks  this  side  of  the  Canadian 
border.  Through  almost  the  middle 
of  this  vast  and  clear  expanse  the 
Union  Pacific  Railway  runs  east  and 
west — a  line  of  life  flowing  like  a 
river  through  the  great  plain — ^the 
Kansas  Pacific  joining  it  at  the  mid- 
dle of  its  course,  a  tributary  of  no 
small  importance. 

Omaha — most  truly  typical  of 
those  border  towns  that,  all  the 
world  over,  spring  up  on  the  verge 
of  the  civilized  where  the  unexplored 
begins — stands  looking  out  upon  the 
muddy  water  of  the  Missouri,  and  watching  with  interested  eyes  that  transient  trav- 
eller whom  it  generally  entices  in  vain  to  linger  long  within  its  precincts — a  town  that 
has  been  all  its  life  a  starting-place ;  to  which  hardly  anybody  has  ever  come  with  the 
thought  of  staying,  so  far  as  one  can  learn  from    hearsay  ;   and    yet,  in    spite    of  the  fact 


172  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

that  every  man  seems  to  arrive  only  with  the  thought  of  departing,  a  prosperous,  thrifty 
town,  not  without  a  look  of  permanence,  though  not  of  any  age  beyond  the  memory 
of  the  youngest  inhabitant.  In  its  directory,  which  the  writer  once  chanced  to  read  with 
some  care,  in  a  waiting  hour,  you  may  find  facts  that  will  startle  you  about  the  rapidity 
of  its  growth  and  the  splendor  of  its  resources.  At  its  station,  one  feels  a  little  of  the 
old-time  pioneer  feeling,  as  he  seems  to  cut  the  chain  that  binds  him  to  Eastern  life,  and 
is  whirled  out  upon  the  great  grassy  sea  he  has  looked  at  wonderingly  from  the 
Omaha  hills. 

The  word  "  valley,"  in  this  apparently  unbroken  plain,  seems  a  misnomer ;  but  it  is 
everywhere  used — as  in  regions  where  its  significance  is  truer — for  the  slight  depression 
that  accompanies  the  course  of  every  stream  ;  and  an  old  traveller  of  the  Plains  will  tell 
you  that  you  are  "  entering  the  valley  of  the  Platte,"  or  "  coming  out  of  the  Papillon 
Valley,"  with  as  much  calmness  as  though  you  were  entering  or  leaving  the  rockiest  and 
wildest  canon  of  the  Sierras.  And  the  valley  of  the  Platte,  whereof  he  speaks,  lies 
before  one  almost  immediately  after  he  has  left  the  Missouri  behind  him.  There  is  only 
a  short  reach  of  railway  to  the  northwest,  a  sharp  turn  to  the  westward,  and  the  clear 
stream  of  the  river  is  beside  the  track — a  clear,  full  channel  if  the  water  is  high,  a  col- 
lection of  brooks  threading  their  way  through  sandy  banks  if  it  is  low.  For  more  than 
a  whole  day  the  railway  runs  beside  the  stream,  and  neither  to  the  north  nor  south  is 
there  noteworthy  change  in  the  general  features  of  the  scenery.  A  vast,  fertile  plain,  at 
first  interrupted  here  and  there  by  bluffs,  and  for  some  distance  not  seldom  dotted  by  a 
settler's  house,  or  by  herds  of  cattle ;  then  a  more  monotonous  region,  still  green  and 
bright  in  aspect;  farther  on — beyond  Fort  Kearney,  and  Plum  Creek,  and  McPherson, 
all  memorable  stations  with  many  associations  from  earlier  times — a  somewhat  sudden 
dying  away  of  the  verdure,  and  a  barren  country,  broken  by  a  few  ravines.  This,  again, 
gives  place,  however,  to  a  better  region  as  the  Wyoming  boundary  is  approached. 

Along  this  reach  of  the  railway,  in  its  earlier  days,  stood  ambitious  "  cities,"  two  or 
three  whose  ruins  are  the  only  reminders  now  of  their  existence.  They  are  odd  features 
of  this  part  of  the  great  prairie,  these  desolate  remains  of  places  not  a  little  famous  in 
their  time,  and  now  almost  forgotten.  The  walls  of  deserted  adobe  houses,  wherein  men 
sat  and  planned  great  futures  for  these  towns  in  embryo,  look  at  you  drearily,  not 
seldom  watching  over  the  graves  of  their  owners,  whose  schemings  were  nipped  in  the 
very  bud  by  the  decisive  revolver-bullet  or  the  incisive  bowie,  as  the  unquiet  denizens 
of  the  mushroom  metropolis  extirpated  their  fellow-citizens  like  true  pioneers,  and 
"  moved  on  "  to  the  next   "  terminus  of  the  road." 

The  Wyoming  border  crossed,  a  new  region  is  entered.  The  Plains  do  not  end, 
but  they  are  already  closely  bordered,  within  sight,  by  the  far-outlying  spurs  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains.  Beyond  the  civilized  oasis  of  Cheyenne,  the  scenery  takes  on  a 
darker  look,  and,  if  one  chances  to  come    to    the    little    station    of  Medicine    Bow  when 


THE    PLAINS    AND    THE    SIERRAS. 


"^n 


Buttes,  Green    River. 


the  sunset  begins  to  cast  long 
shadows  from  the  black  moun- 
tams   on  the  southern   side   of 
the  North  Fork  of  the  Platte, 
theie  IS  something  almost  som- 
bre m  the  aspect  of  the   shaded    plain. 
The    Laiamie    plains    have    just    been 
passed,    mdccd,    they    still    lie    to    the 
north waid      Hills  break  the  monotony 
of  then    hoii/on,   and    here    and    there 
the  regular  forms  of  castellated   kittcs 
stand    out     sharply    against    the     sky. 
The  far-off  Red  Buttes  are  most  note- 
worthy and  most  picturesque  of  these ; 


174  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

grouped  together  like  giant  fortresses,  with  fantastic  towers  and  walls,  they  lift  ragged 
edges  above  the  prairie,  looking  lonely,  weird,  and  strong.  Among  the  singular  shapes 
their  masses  of  stone  assume,  the  strangely-formed  and  pillar-like  Dial  Rocks  tower  up — 
four  columns  of  worn  and  scarred  sandstone,  like  the  supports  of  some  ruined  cromlech 
built  by  giants.  About  them,  and,  indeed,  through  the  whole  region  about  the  little  set- 
tlements and  army-posts,  from  the  place  called  Wyoming,  on  to  Bitter  Creek — ominously 
named — the  country  is  a  barren,  unproductive  waste.  The  curse  of  the  sage-brush,  and 
even  of  alkali,  is  upon   it,  and  it  is  dreary  and  gloomy  everywhere  save  on  the  hills. 

Only  with  the  approach  to  Gregn  River  does  the  verdure  come  again — and  then 
only  here  and  there,  generally  close  by  the  river-bank.  Here  the  picturesque  forms  of 
the  buttes  reappear — a  welcome  relief  to  the  monotony  that  has  marked  the  outlook 
during  the  miles  of  level  desert  that  are  past.  The  distance,  too,  is  changed,  and  no 
longer  is  like  the  great  surface  of  a  sea.  To  the  north,  forming  the  horizon,  stretches 
the  Wind-River  Range — named  with  a  breezy  poetry  that  v/e  miss  in  the  later  nomen- 
clature of  the  race  that  has  followed  after  the  pioneers.  To  the  south  lie  the  Uintah 
Mountains. 

At  some  Httle  distance  from  the  railway  the  great  Black  Buttes  rise  up  for  hun- 
dreds of  feet,  terminating  in  round  and  rough-ribbed  towers.  And  other  detached  columns 
of  stone  stand  near  them — the  Pilot,  seen  far  off  in  the  view  that  Mr.  Moran  has  drawn 
of  the  river  and  its  cliffs.  And  through  all  this  region  fantastic  forms  abound  every- 
v/here,  the  architecture  of  Nature  exhibited  in  sport.  An  Eastern  journalist^ — a  traveller 
here  in  the  first  days  of  the  Pacific  Railway — has  best  enumerated  the  varied  shapes. 
All  about  one,  he  says,  lie  "  long,  wide  troughs,  as  of  departed  rivers ;  long,  level 
embankments,  as  of  railroad-tracks  or  endless  fortifications ;  huge,  quaint  hills,  suddenly 
rising  from  the  plain,  bearing  fantastic  shapes;  great  square  mounds  of  rock  and  earth, 
half-formed,  half-broken  pyramids — it  would  seem  as  if  a  generation  of  giants  had  built 
and  buried  here,  and  left  their  work  to  awe  and  humble  a  puny  succession." 

The  Church  Butte  is  the  grandest  of  the  groups  that  rise  in  this  singular  and 
striking  series  of  tower-like  piles  of  stone.  It  lies  somewhat  further  on,  beyond  the  little 
station  of  Bryan,  and  forms  a  compact  and  imposing  mass  of  rock,  with  an  outlying 
spur  that  has  even  more  than  the  main  body  the  air  of  human,  though  gigantic  archi- 
tecture. It  "imposes  on  the  imagination,"  says  Mr.  Bowles,  in  one  of  his  passages  of 
clear  description,  "  like  a  grand  old  cathedral  going  into  decay — quaint  in  its  crumbling 
ornaments,  majestic  in  its  height  and  breadth."  And  of  the  towering  forms  of  the  whole 
group,  he  says :  "  They  seem,  like  the  more  numerous  and  fantastic  illustrations  of 
Nature's  frolicksome  art  in  Southern  Colorado,  to  be  the  remains  of  granite  hills  that 
wind  and  water,  and  especially  the  sand  whirlpools  that  march  with  lordly  force  through 
the  air — literally  moving  mountains — have  left  to  tell  the  story  of  their  own  achieve- 
ments.    Not  unfitly,  there  as  here,  they  have  won  the  title  of  'Monuments  to  the  Gods.'" 


176 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


This  point  on  the  Plains,  where  the  mountains — the  main  chains  running  northwest 
and  southeast — seem  to  send  out  transverse  ranges  and  outlying  spurs  to  intersect  the 
prairie  in  all  directions — if,  indeed,  we  may  speak  of  prairie  any  longer  where  the  level 
reaches  are  so  small  as  here  among  the  Rocks — has  interests  beyond  those  of  its  merely 
picturesque  scenery.  While  we  have  spoken  of  the  cliffs  and  buttes,  the  route  we  are 
pursuing  has  crossed  the  "  backbone  of  the  continent " — that  great  water-shed  where 
the  waters  that  flow  through  the  whole  east  of  the  country  separate  from  those  that 
descend  toward  the  west.  It  is  at  Sherman — which  its  proud  neighbors  and  few  residents 
will  haughtily  but  truly  describe  to  you  as   "  the  highest  railway-station    in    the  world " — 


^•«§^^^ 


,%'?" 


Church   Butte,  Utah. 


that  the  greatest  elevation  is  reached;  for  the  little  group  of  buildings  there  lies  eight 
thousand  two  hundred  and  thirty-five  feet  above  sea-level.  It  is  impossible  to  realize 
that  this  height  has  been  attained,  the  ascent  has  been  so  gradual,  the  scenery  so  un- 
marked by  those  sharp  and  steep  forms  which  we  are  accustomed  always  to  associate 
with  great  mountains. 

It  is  a  characteristic  of  this  whole  portion  of  the  Rocky-Mountain  chain,  and  one 
that  disappoints  many  a  traveller,  that  there  are  here  no  imposing  and  ragged  peaks,  no 
sharp  summits,  no  snow-covered  passes,  and  little  that  is  wild  and  rugged.  All  that  those 
who  remember  Switzerland  have  been  accustomed  to  connect  in   their   minds  with   great 


A 


THE    PLAINS    AND    THE    SIERRAS. 


177 


groups    of     mountain- 
masses  must  be  sought 
elsewhere.     The  Plains 
themselves    rise  ;     one 
does  not  leave  them  in 
order   to  climb.     Over 
a    vast,    grass  -  covered, 
almost  unbroken,  grad- 
ual    slope,     extending 
over  hundreds  of  miles 
of  country,  the  wayfarer  has    come    imperceptibly    to  the   great 
water-shed.     It  is  scenery  of  prairie,  not  of  hills  and  peaks,  that 
has  surrounded  his  journey. 

For  the  last  fifty  miles,  indeed,  before  the  arrival  at  Sher- 
man, the  rise  has  been  barely  appreciable  ;  but  that  is  all.  A 
new  circumstance  makes  the  descent  from  the  great  height 
much  more  perceptible  and  enjoyable  through  a  new  sensation. 
It  is  then  that  the  traveller  over  duller  Eastern  roads,  who  has 
flattered  himself  that  the  "  lightning  express "  of  his  own  region  was  the  highest  possible 
form   of  railway    speed,  first   learns  the  real  meaning   of    a    "  down    grade."     The    descent 


178  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

from  Sherman  to  the  Laramie  Plains  is  a  new  experience  to  such  people  as  have  not 
slid  down  a  Russian  ice-hill,  or  fallen  from  a  fourth-story  window.  Let  the  hardy  indi- 
vidual who  would  enjoy  it  to  the  full  betake  himself  to  the  last  platform  of  the  last 
car,  or  the  foremost  platform  of  the  front  one,  and  there  hold  hard  to  brake  or  railing, 
to  watch  the   bewitched  world  spin  and  whirl. 

But  we  have  returned  a  long  distance  on  our  course.  We  have  reached  the  Church 
Butte,  beyond  Bryan,  and  had  crossed  Green  River,  near  the  place  where,  on  the  old  over- 
land stage -route  and  the  emigrant-road,  travellers  used  years  ago  to  ford  the  stream — no 
unwelcome  task,  with  that  great  Bitter-Creek  waste  of  alkali  still  fresh  in  the  memories 
and  hardly  out  of  their  view.  At  Bryan  Station,  too,  there  is  an  offshoot  from  the 
regular  path,  in  the  form  of  a  long  stage-road,  leading  away  into  the  northeast  to  the 
picturesque  mining-region  of  Sweetwater,  a  hundred  miles  distant,  where  man  has  spent 
endless  toil  in  searching  for  deceptive  "  leads." 

The  main  line  of  the  great  railway  goes  on  beyond  Green  River  through  the  valley 
of  a  stream  that  flows  down  from  the  Uintah  Mountains;  and,  leaving  at  the  south  Fort 
Bridger  and  crossing  the  old  Mormon  road,  enters  Utah.  A  little  farther,  and  we  are 
among  the  noblest  scenes  of  the  journey  this  side  the  far-away  Sierras. 

As  on  the  Rhine,  the  long  stretch  of  the  river  from  Mainz  to  Cologne  has  been 
for  years,  by  acknowledgment,  "  the  river,"  so  that  portion  of  the  Pacific  Railway  that 
lies  between  Wasatch  and  Ogden,  in  this  northernmost  corner  of  Utah,  will  some  day 
be  that  part  of  the  journey  across  the  centre  of  the  continent  that  will  be  especially 
regarded  by  the  tourist  as  necessary  to  be  seen  beyond  all  others.  It  does  not  in 
grandeur  approach  the  mountain-scenery  near  the  western  coast,  but  it  is  unique ;  it 
is  something,  the  counterpart  of  which  you  can  see  nowhere  in  the  world ;  and,  long 
after  the  whole  Pacific  journey  is  as  hackneyed  in  the  eyes  of  Europeans  and  Americans 
as  is  the  Rhine  tour  now,  this  part  of  it  will  keep  its  freshness  among  the  most  marked 
scenes  of  the  journey.     It  is  a  place  which  cities  and  settlements  cannot  destroy. 

A  short  distance  west  from  Wasatch  Station  the  road  passes  through  a  tunnel  nearly 
eight  hundred  feet  in  length.  The  preparation  for  what  is  to  come  could  not  be  better ; 
and,  indeed,  the  whole  bleak  and  dreary  region  that  has  been  passed  over  adds  so  much 
to  the  freshness  and  picturesqueness  of  these  Utah  scenes  that  it  may  very  possibly  have 
contributed  not  a  little  to  the  enthusiasm  they  have  called  forth.  From  the  darkness  the 
train  emerges  suddenly,  and,  tunnel  and  cutting  being  passed,  there  lies  before  the  trav- 
eller a  view  of  the  green  valley  before  the  entrance  to  Echo  Caiion.  Through  it  flows 
the  Weber  River,  bordered  with  trees,  and  making  a  scene  that  is  suddenly  deprived  of 
all  the  weirdness  and  look  of  dreary  devastation  that  has  marked  the  country  through  so 
many  miles  of  this  long  journey.  The  valley  is  not  so  broad,  so  pastoral  in  aspect,  as 
that  which  comes  after  the  wild  scenery  of  the  first  canon  is  passed ;  but  it  is  like  a 
woodland  valley  of  home  lying  here  in  the  wilderness. 


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i8o  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

Near  the  head  of  Echo  Canon  stands  Castle  Rock,  one  of  the  noblest  of  the  great 
natural  landmarks  that  are  passed  in  all  the  route — a  vast  and  ragged  pile  of  massive 
stone,  fantastically  cut,  by  all  those  mighty  forces  that  toil  through  the  centuries,  into  the 
very  semblance  of  a  mountain-fortress.  A  cavernous  opening  simulates  a  giant  door  of 
entrance  between  its  rounded  and  overhanging  towers ;  the  jagged  points  above  are  like 
the  ruins  of  battlements  left  bristling  and  torn  after  combats  of  Titans ;  the  huge  layers 
of  its  worn  sides  seem  to  have  been  builded  by  skilful  hands ;  and  the  great  rounded 
foundations,  from  which  the  sandy  soil  has  been  swept  away,  would  appear  rooted  in  the 
very  central  earth.  It  surmounts  a  lofty,  steep-sided  eminence,  and  frowns  down  with  an 
awesome  strength  and  quiet  on  the  lonely  valley  below  it. 

It  is  a  great  ruin  of  Nature,  not  of  human  structure ;  and  its  grandeur  is  different 
in  kind  and  in  degree  from  those  other  relics  in  an  older  world,  wherewith  human  his- 
tory is  associated  in  every  mind,  which  hold  for  us  everywhere  the  memories  of  human 
toil  and  action.  It  is  a  strangely  different  feeling  that  this  grand  pile,  made  with  no 
man's  hands,  gives  us  as  we  look  up  at  it.  It  has  stood  alone  longer  than  whole  races 
have  been  in  the  world.  Its  lines  were  shaped  with  no  thought,  it  seems,  of  those  that 
were  to  see  them ;  the  purposeless  wind  and  sand  and  rain  have  been  busy  at  it  for 
vast  cycles  of  time,  and  at  the  end  it  is  a  thing  of  art — a  great  lesson  of  rude  archi- 
tecture. 

Beyond  it  the  road  enters  the  Echo  Canon  itself.  It  is  a  narrow  gorge  between 
rocky  walls  that  tower  hundreds  of  feet  above  its  uneven  floor,  along  which  the  river 
runs  with  a  stream  as  bright  and  clear  as  at  its  very  source.  Not  simply  a  straight  cut 
between  its  precipices  of  red-and-dark-stained  stone,  but  a  winding  valley,  with  every 
turn  presenting  some  new  variation  of  its  wonderful  scenery.  On  the  mountains  that 
form  its  sides  there  is  little  verdure — only  a  dwarfed  growth  of  pine  scattered  here  and 
there,  leaving  the  steeper  portions  of  the  rock  bare  and  ragged  in  outline.  Now  and 
then  there  are  little  openings,  where  the  great  walls  spread  apart  and  little  glades  are 
formed  ;    but  these  are  no  less  picturesque  than  the  wilder  passages. 

There  are  memorable  places  here.  Half-way  down  the  gorge  is  Hanging  Rock, 
where  Brigham  Young  spoke  to  his  deluded  hundreds  after  their  long  pilgrimage,  and 
pointed  out  to  them  that  they  approached  their  Canaan — preached  the  Mormons'  first 
sermon  in  the  "  Promised  Land."  Full  of  all  that  is  wild  and  strange,  as  is  this  rocky 
valley,  seen  even  from  the  prosaic  window  of  a  whirling  railway-car,  what  must  it  have 
been  with  the  multitude  of  fanatics,  stranger  than  all  its  strangeness,  standing  on  its 
varied  floor  and  looking  up  at  the  speaking  prophet,  whom  they  half  believed,  half 
feared .?  The  weary  multitude  of  half-excited,  half-stolid  faces  turned  toward  the  preacher ; 
the  coarse,  strong,  wild  words  of  the  leader  echoing  from  the  long-silent  rocks — why  has 
no  one  ever  pictured  for  us  all  of  the  scene  that  could  be  pictured  } 

A  relic  of  the  early  Mormon  days,  but  not  a  proud  one,  is   some    miles   away  from 


MONUMENT     ROCK,     ECHO     CANON 


i82  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

this,  high  on  the  rocks ;  an  unnoticeable  ruin  of  the  little  fortifications  once  for  a  very 
short  time  occupied  by  the  United  States  troops,  in  the  presidency  of  Buchanan,  when 
a  trifling  detachment  of  soldiers  made  a  perfectly  vain  and  indecisive  show  of  interfering 
with  the  rule  of  the  rebellious  saints.  The  ruin  is  hardly  more  important  than  the 
attempt ;  yet  it  deserves  mention,  if  only  as  commemorative  of  an  episode  that  the 
future  historian,  if  he  notes  it  at  all,  will  connect  with  this  rocky  region  of  hard  marches 
and  ill-fated  emigrants. 

The  canon  is  not  long ;  the  train  dashes  through  it  at  sharp  pace ;  and  suddenly, 
without  passing  any  point  of  view  that  gives  the  traveller  a  warning  glance  ahead,  it 
turns  and  dashes  out  into  the  beautiful  and  broad  valley  beyond,  halting  at  Echo  City — 
most  picturesque  and  bright  of  little  villages,  destined,  perhaps,  to  realize  its  ambitious 
name  some  time  in  the  remotest  future. 

The  scene  here  is — as  has  been  said  in  advance — a  really  pastoral  one.  The  broad 
plain,  left  by  the  encircling  mountains,  is  green  and  fresh ;  the  river  winds  through  its 
grassy  expanse  in  pleasant  quiet,  without  brawl  or  rush ;  the  trees  are  like  those  in  a 
familiar  Eastern  country-side.  Only  the  great  outlines  of  the  surrounding  hills,  and  here 
and  there  the  appearance  on  the  horizon  of  some  sharper,  higher,  more  distant  peaks, 
show  the  traveller  his  whereabouts,  and  take  his  mind  from  the  quieter  aspect  of  what 
lies  about  him.  Near  by,  in  valleys  leading  into  this,  are  various  Mormon  settlements ; 
for  we  are  already  in  the  country  of  the  saints. 

But  the  grandest  gorge  is  still  to  come  ;  and  the  road  enters  it  almost  at  once  after 
crossing  the  little  plain.  It  is  Weber  Canon — the  greatest  of  these  Utah  ravines.  Its 
immense  walls  are  grander  by  far  than  those  of  Echo  ;  the  forms  of  their  ragged  edges 
and  the  carvings  of  their  surfaces  are  more  fantastic ;  and  the  deep,  dark  aspect  of  the 
whole  narrow  valley  gives  in  every  way  a  nobler  scene.  It  should  be  viewed  on  a 
cloudy,  gloomy  day,  to  realize  its  whole  look  of  wild  grandeur.  The  little  river  brawls 
at  the  left  of  the  track  ;  the  thunder  of  the  locomotive  echoes  from  the  high  precipices 
at  its  sides ;  the  rush  of  the  train's  onward  motion  adds  a  certain  additional  wildness  to 
the  shadowy  place. 

The  old  emigrant-road  passes  through  the  canon,  like  the  railway.  It  crosses  and 
recrosses  the  river,  and  winds  among  the  trees  along  the  banks,  sometimes  lost  to  view 
from  the  train.  Little  frequented  as  it  is  in  these  days,  the  writer  has  seen,  within  a 
very  few  years,  a  "prairie  schooner"  of  the  old  historic  form  passing  along  it;  a  rough, 
strong  emigrant  riding  beside  it ;  children's  faces  looking  out  between  the  folds  of  the 
cloth  covering ;  and  household  goods  dimly  discernible  within.  And  at  one  of  the  river- 
crossings  is  a  mark  that  must  often  have  given  renewed  hope  or  pain  to  many  a  one 
among  this  family's  predecessors — the  famous  old  "  Thousand-Mile  Tree,"  that  stands  at 
just  that  weary  distance  from  Omaha,  even  farther  from  the  great  city  by  the  Golden 
Gate. 


DEVIL'S     GATE,     WEBER     CANON. 


1 84 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Whoever  follows  the  nomenclature  of  Weber  Canon  would  be  led  to  think  the 
enemy  of  mankind  held  there  at  least  undisputed  sway.  All  the  great  glories  of  the 
view  are  marked  as  his.     The  Devil's  Gate — a  black,  ragged  opening  in  one  part    of  the 

great  gorge,  through  which  the 
foaming  waters  of  the  river 
rush  white  and  noisy — is  one, 
but  it  is  well  named.  A  very 
spirit  of  darkness  seems  to 
brood  over  the  place.  On  each 
side,  the  broken  cliffs  lie  in 
shadow ;  the  thundering  water 
roars  below ;  there  is  no  ver- 
dure but  a  blasted  tree  here 
and  there ;  great  bowlders  lie 
in  the  bed  of  the  stream  and 
along  the  shore.  In  the  dis- 
tance, seen  through  the  gap, 
there  are  black  hills  and  moun- 
tain-summits overlooking  them. 
And  there  is  a  cool  wind 
here,  that  is  like  a  breeze 
blown  across  the  Styx,  and 
that  is  never  still,  even  in  the 
hottest  summer  day. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to 
think,  in  this  wonderful  valley, 
of  the  engineering  skill  that 
was  needed  to  carry  the  iron 
road  through  its  depths.  All 
through  the  canon  are  evi- 
dences of  the  difficulties  of 
the  task.  Here  a  truss-bridge 
and  web-like  trestle-work  carry 
the  rails  from  one  point  of 
the  rocky  wall  to  another  be- 
yond the  stream  ;  here,  for  a  great  space,  the  road-bed  is  cut  from  the  very  sides  of 
the  great  cliffs,  where  the  gorge  narrows  and  leaves  no  room  for  more  than  sand  and 
river.  And,  as  if  to  mock  at  it  all,  Nature  has  tried  her  hand,  too,  at  construction, 
with    a    success  at  once  weird,  sublime,  and    grotesque.      On  the  left    hand   of   the  route, 


Devil's   Slide,    Weber   Canon. 


96 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


on  the  steep  front  of  the  rocky 
cliff,  appears  at  one  point  the  very 
mockery  of  human  work — the  sin- 
gular formation  called  "  The  Devil's 
Slide " — by  that  same  rule  of  no- 
menclature that  we  have  mentioned 
once  before.  Two  parallel  walls  of 
stone,  extending  from  summit  to 
base  of  the  precipice,  and  enclos- 
ing between  them  a  road  -  way, 
regular  and  unobstructed.  An  edi- 
tor, whom  your  guide-books  will 
be  sure  to  quote,  has  written  a 
good,  though  somewhat  too  statis- 
tical, description  of  this  singular 
place  ;  we  have  found  it  in  a  well- 
used  route-book,  and  quote  it,  in 
default  of  words  that  could  say 
more : 

"  Imagine,"  the  writer  says,  "  a 
mountain  eighty  hundred  feet  high, 
composed  of  solid,  dark-red  sand- 
stone, with  a  smooth  and  grad- 
ually ascending  surface  to  its  very 
pinnacle,  and  only  eight  or  ten 
degrees  from  being  perpendicular. 
At  the  foot  of  this  mountain  the 
Weber  River  winds  its  devious 
course.  From  the  base  of  the 
immense  red  mountain,  up  its  en- 
tire height  of  eight  hundred  feet, 
is  what  is  called  '  The  Devil's 
Slide,'  composed  of  white  lime- 
stone. It  consists  of  a  smooth, 
white  stone  floor  from  base  to 
summit,  about  fifteen  feet  wide,  as 
straight  and  regular  as  if  laid  by 
a  stone-mason  with  line  and  plum- 
met.      On      either     side     of     this 


THE    PLAINS    AND     THE    SIERRAS. 


187 


smooth,  white  line  is  what  appears  to  the  eye  to  be  a  well-laid  white  stone-wall,  varying 
in  height  from  ten  to  twenty  feet.  This  white  spectacle  on  the  red  mountain-side  has 
all  the  appearance  of  being  made  by  man  or  devil  as  a  slide  from  the  top  of  the 
mountain  to  the  bed  of  Weber  River." 

This  odd  freak  of  Nature  has  nothing  sublime  about  it ;  the  whole  idea  that  it 
conveys  is  that  of  singularity ;    but  it  is  strangely  picturesque  and  striking. 

And  now  we  are  nearing  the  very  centre  of  Mormondom  ;  for  only  a  little  beyond 
the  Devil's  Gate,  which,  though  first  named,  is  farther  toward  the  western  extremity  of 
the  canon  than  the  "  SHde,"  we  come  to  Uintah  Station,  glance  at  the  Salt-Lake  Valley, 
and  are  hurried  on  to  Ogden,  whence  the  trains  go  out  to  the  City  of  the  Saints  itself. 
Ogden  lies  in  the   great    plain    of  the  valley,  but   from    the    low   railway-station   you    see 


Plains   of  the    Humboldt. 


in  the  distance  long  ranges  of  mountains,  more  picturesque  than  almost  any  distant  view 
you  have  had  thus  far ;  and  all  about  the  town  are  green  fields — yes,  positively  fenced- 
off  fields — and  beyond  them  the  prairie  ;    but  here  no  longer  without  trees. 

Whoever  will  may  leave  this  station — a  great  central  point  of  the  line,  for  here 
the  Union  and  the  Central  roads  meet  and  cause  the  dreary  business  of  changing  cars 
— and,  adding  a  day  or  two  to  his  journey,  may  take  the  sonorously-named  Utah  Cen- 
tral Railway — as  if,  indeed,  the  Territory  boasted  a  net-work  of  iron  roads — and  journey 
down  to  Salt-Lake  City  to  see  the  curious  civilization  he  will  find  there.  "It  lies  in  a 
great  valley,"  says  the  statistical  and  accurate  description  of  this  city  of  the  Mormons — 
a  description  which  we  prefer  to  partly  set  down  here  rather  than  to  run  risks  of  error 
by  trusting  our  own  memory  for   any  thing  more  than  picturesque   aspects — "  it  lies  in  a 


1 88  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

great  valley,  extending  close  up  to  the  base  of  the  Wasatch  Mountains  on  the  north, 
with  an  expansive  view  to  the  south  of  more  than  one  hundred  miles  of  plains,  beyond 
which,  in  the  distance,  rise,  clear  cut  and  grand  in  the  extreme,  the  gray,  jagged,  and 
rugged  mountains,  whose  peaks  are  covered  with  perpetual  snow."  (Oh,  unhappy  writer 
in  statistical  guide-books!  How  much  more  "grand  in  the  extreme"  is  that  view  in  its 
bright  reality  than  any  words  of  yours  or  mine  can  show  to  those  who  have  not  seen  it ! 
Let  us  keep  to  our  statistics.)  "  Adjoining  the  city  is  a  fine  agricultural  and  mining 
region,  which  has  a  large  and  growing  trade.  The  climate  of  the  valley  is  healthful,  and 
the  soil,  where  it  can  be  irrigated,  is  extremely  fertile.  .  .  .  The  city  covers  an  area  of 
about  nine  miles,  or  three  miles  each  way,  and  is  handsomely  laid  out.  The  streets  are 
very  wide,  with  irrigating  ditches  passing  through  all  of  them,  keeping  the  shade-trees 
and  orchards  looking  beautiful.  Every  block  is  surrounded  with  shade-trees,  and  nearly 
every  house  has  its  neat  little  orchard  of  apple,  peach,  apricot,  plum,  and  cherry  trees. 
Fruit  is  very  abundant,  and  the  almond,  the  catalpa,  and  the  cotton-wood-tree,  grow  side 
by  side  with  the  maple,  the  willow,  and  the  locust.  In  fact,  the  whole  nine  square  miles 
is  almost  one  continuous  garden." 

So  it  will  be  seen  that  even  a  city  on  the  Plains  has  elements  that  entitle  it  to  a 
place  in  this  record  of  the  picturesque,  and  that  it  is  not  as  other  cities  are.  But  Mr. 
Charles  Nordhoff  tells  us,  in  his  "  California,"  that  "  Salt  Lake  need  not  hold  any  mere 
pleasure-traveller  more  than  a  day.  You  can  drive  all  over  it  in  two  hours ;  and  when 
you  have  seen  the  Tabernacle — an  admirably-arranged  and  very  ugly  building — which 
contains  an  organ,  built  in  Salt  Lake  by  an  English  workman,  a  Mormon,  named 
Ridges,  which  organ  is  second  in  size  only  to  the  Boston  organ,  and  far  sweeter  in  tone 
than  the  one  of  Plymouth  Church ;  the  menagerie  of  Brigham  Young's  enclosure,  which 
contains  several  bears,  some  lynxes  and  wild-cats — natives  of  these  mountains — and  a 
small  but  interesting  collection  of  minerals  and  Indian  remains,  and  of  the  manufactures 
of  the  Mormons ;  the  Temple  Block  ;  and  enjoyed  the  magnificent  view  from  the  back 
of  the  city  of  the  valley  and  the  snow-capped  peaks  which  lie  on  the  other  side — a 
view  which  you  carry  with  you  all  over  the  place — you  have  done  Salt-Lake  City,  and 
have  time,  if  you  have  risen  early,  to  bathe  at  the  sulphur  spring.  The  lake  lies  too  far 
away  to  be  visited  in  one  day." 

But,  in  spite  of  its  distance,  the  great  inland  sea  should  certainly  be  seen.  It  is  a 
remarkable  sight  from  any  point  of  view,  and  as  you  come  suddenly  upon  it,  after  the 
long  days  of  travel,  in  which  you  have  seen  only  rivers  and  scanty  brooks,  it  seems 
almost  marvellous.  A  great  expanse  of  sparkling  water  in  the  sunshine,  or  a  dark  waste 
that  looks  like  the  ocean  itself  when  you  see  it  under  a  cloudy  sky,  it  is  an  outlook  not 
to  be  forgotten  in  many  a  day. 

Here,  before  we  leave  the  Salt-Lake  region,  we  must  say  a  word  to  correct  one 
very  false  idea  concerning  it — that  which  obtains  concerning  its  great  fertility  and  natural 


PALISADE     CANON. 


I90  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

wealth  of  soil.  This  point  is  referred  to  in  Mr.  Nordhoff's  book,  and,  so  far  as  we 
know,  almost  for  the  first  time  correctly ;  but  we  have  never  passed  through  Utah  by 
the  railway,  or  passed  a  day  in  this  portion  of  the  country,  without  greatly  wondering  why 
the  common,  unfounded  theory  had  kept  its  place  so  long.  It  is  popularly  supposed  that 
the  Mormons  have  settled  in  a  very  garden  of  the  earth,  and  that  their  Canaan  w^as  by 
no  means  all  visionary ;  and  there  are  not  a  few  good  people  who  have  agitated  them- 
selves because  these  heathen  had  possession  of  one  of  the  noblest  parts  of  the  American 
territory. 

This  is  all  entirely  wrong.  The  region  is  really,  by  Nature,  an  arid  desert,  made 
up  of  veritable  "  Terres  Mauvaises,"  though  not  such  picturesque  ones  as  lie,  dotted 
with  monumental  rocks,  but  a  little  distance  from  the  lake.  The  Mormons  can 
truly  boast  that  they  have  made  their  land  "blossom  like  the  rose;"  but  only  by 
the  greatest  toil  and  care,  and  by  an  expenditure  of  wealth  utterly  disproportionate  to 
its  results.  "  Considering  what  an  immense  quantity  of  good  land  there  is  in  these 
United  States,"  says  Mr.  Nordhoff,  "  I  should  say  that  Brigham  Young  made  what  they 
call  in  the  West  '  a  mighty  poor  land  speculation '  for  his  people.  '  If  we  should  stop 
irrigation  for  ninety  days,  not  a  tree,  shrub,  or  vine,  would  remain  alive  in  our  country,' 
said  a  Mormon  to  me,  as  I  walked  through  his  garden.  'Not  a  tree  grew  in  our  plains 
when  we  came  here,  and  we  had,  and  have,  to  haul  our  wood  and  timber  fourteen  to 
twenty  miles  out  of  the  mountains,'  said  another.  The  soil,  though  good,  is  full  of 
stones  ;  and  I  saw  a  terraced  garden  of  about  three  acres,  built  up  against  the  hill-side, 
which  must  have  cost  ten  or  twelve  thousand  dollars  to  prepare.  That  is  to  say,  Young 
marched  his  people  a  thousand  miles  through  a  desert  to  settle  them  in  a  valley  where 
almost  every  acre  must  have  cost  them,  in  labor  and  money  to  get  it  ready  for  agricult- 
ural use,  I  should  say  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars.  An  Illinois,  or  Iowa,  or  Mis- 
souri, or  Minnesota  farmer,  who  paid  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  an  acre  for  his  land  in  those 
days,  got  a  better  farm,  ready-made  to  his  hand,  than  these  people  got  from  Brigham, 
their  leader,  only  after  the  experience  of  untold  hardships  (which  we  will  not  now  count 
in),  and  of  at  least  one  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  labor  per  acre  when  they  reached  their 
destination."  It  will  some  time  be  more  widely  appreciated  how  completely  the  whole 
pleasant  pastoral  scenery  here  is  the  work  of  men's  hands ;  for  the  present,  the  passage 
just  quoted  is  so  true  that  it  shall  serve  as  the  only  reference  here  to  the  subject. 

West  from  Ogden  lies  the  second  great  reach  of  the  long  overland  journey.  Salt- 
Lake  City,  an  oasis  of  humanity,  if  not  of  a  very  high  order  of  civilization,  serves  to 
mark  the  half-way  pomt  in  the  modern  crossing  of  the  Plains.  The  railways  meet  at 
Ogden  Station,  and  the  continued  journey  toward  the  western  coast  is  made  on  "the 
Central,"  as  the  affectionate  abbreviation  of  the  railway-men  calls  the  latter  half  of  the 
great  iron  road.  It  passes  westward  through  Corinne,  a  station  which  derives  its  life  and 
prosperity  chiefly  from  its  communication  with  the  Utah  silver-mines,  and  reaches    Prom- 


THE    PLAINS    AND     THE    SIERRAS. 


191 


ontory  —  properly,    it    seems,  - 

called     "  Promontory     Point," 
which    appears  a  strange   bit    of  tautology. 
Here  is  a  noteworthy  place,  and  one  which 
all  historians  of  the    future   ought  to  cele- 
brate,   each    after    his    manner.      Close    by 
the    station,  which    the    road    reaches  after  skirting  the  shore 
of  the    great    Salt    Lake  for  a  little  time,  and  then  suddenly 
curving  away,  the  great  iron    line,  pushed  westward  from  the 
east,  met  and  joined  that  which  for  many  months  had  grown 
slowly  toward  it   from    the  west — the    last    links   of  the    iron 
chain    were    riveted.      There    were   jubilant    ceremonies    when 

the  great  day  of  ending  the  road  came  at  last,  on  the  loth  of  May,  1869.  A  rose- 
wood "  tie "  joined  the  last  rails ;  and  solemnly,  in  the  presence  of  a  silent  assembly, 
a  golden  spike  was  driven  with  silver  hammer — the  last  of  the  thousands  on  thousands 
of  fastenings  that  held  together  the  mightiest  work  made  for  the  sake  of  human  com- 
munication and  intercourse  in  all  the  world.  The  engines  met  from  the  east  and  west, 
as  Bret  Harte  told  us — 

"  Pilots  touching — head  to  head 
Facing  on  the  single  track, 
Half  a  world  behind  each  back  " — 


192  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

and  there  was  a  girdle  round  the  earth  such  as  the  men  of  a  century  before  had  not 
dared  even  to  dream  of. 

Beyond  the  memorable  Promontory  comes  a  dreary  waste — the  dreariest  that  has 
yet  been  passed,  and  perhaps  the  most  utterly  desolate  of  all  the  journey.  Nothing  lives 
here  but  the  hopelessly  wretched  sage-brush,  and  a  tribe  of  little  basking  lizards ;  yes, 
one  thing  more — the  kind  of  gaunt,  lank  animals  called  "jackass-rabbits,"  that  eat  no 
one  knows  what  on  this  arid  plain.  The  horizon  is  bordered  by  bare,  burned  mountains ; 
the  ground  is  a  waste  of  sand  and  salt ;  the  air  is  a  whirl  of  alkali-dust.  Kelton,  and 
Matlin,  and  Toano,  dreariest  of  Nevada  stations  !  Could  any  man  wish  his  direst  enemy 
a  more  bitter  fate  than  to  be  kept  here  in  the  midst  of  this  scene  for  a  decade .? 

There  is  some  mineral  wealth,  farther  on,  hidden  near  the  route  of  the  railway ;  but, 
apart  from  this,  there  would  seem  to  be  nothing  useful  to  man  obtainable  from  all  this 
region.  We  dash  across  the  sterile  space  in  a  few  hours,  but  imagine  for  a  moment  the 
dreary  time  for  the  old  emigrant-trains,  which  came  on  to  these  gusty,  dusty  levels  in 
old  days,  and  found  neither  grass,  nor  water,  nor  foliage,  until  they  came  to  Humboldt 
Wells,  blessed  of  many  travellers,  lying  close  together  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the 
present  road,  and  surrounded  with  tall,  deep-green  herbage.  There  are  nearly  a  score  of 
these  grateful  springs  scattered  about  in  a  small  area ;  and  they  are  of  very  great  depth, 
with  cool,  fresh,  limpid  water. 

They  herald  the  approach  of  another  and  a  different  district,  for  now  we  soon  come 
to  the  Humboldt  River  itself,  and  for  a  time  have  all  the  benefit  of  the  growth  of  trees 
along  its  sides,  and  the  fertility  that  its  waters  revive  along  its  course.  The  soil  here  is 
really  arable ;  but  go  a  little  distance  away  from  the  river,  and  the  few  water-pools  are 
alkaline,  and  the  land  resumes  the  features  of  the  desert-soil.  The  scenery  here,  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  Humboldt  Valley,  is  for  a  time  varied,  and  in  many  places  even  wild 
and  grand.  The  road  winds  through  picturesque  canons,  and  under  the  shadow  of  the 
northernmost  mountains  of  the  Humboldt  Range,  until  the  important  station  of  Elko  is 
reached.  This  is  a  notev/orthy  supply-station  for  all  the  country  around  it,  in  which  are 
numerous  mining  settlements.  The  town  is  a  place  of  great  import  to  all  the  guide- 
books of  this  region.  It  has  a  population  of  more  than  five  thousand,  as  we  learn  from 
one  account  of  it ;  and  there  are  a  hundred  and  fifty  shops  of  various  kinds,  great 
freight-houses,  an  hotel,  two  banks,  two  newspapers,  a  school,  and  a  court-house.  Truly  a 
most  promising  prairie-town  is  this,  to  have  grown  up  in  three  hurried  years,  and  to 
flourish  on  the  borders  of  a  desert ! 

For  now  we  have  a  little  more  of  sage-brush  and  alkali,  ant-hills,  and  sand.  Let 
him  who  passes  over  the  Humboldt  Plains  on  a  hot  August  day,  and  feels  the  flying 
white  dust  burning  and  parching  eyes  and  mouth  and  throat,  making  gritty  unpleas- 
antness in  the  water  wherewith  he  tries  to  wash  it  away,  and  finding  lodgment  in 
every  fold  of  his  clothing,  be  sufficiently  thankful  that  he  is  not  plodding  on  with  jaded 


THE    PLAINS    AND     THE    SIERRAS. 


193 


horse  by  the  side  of 
a  crowded  emigrant- 
wagon,  with  days  of 
similar  journeying  be- 
hind him,  and  some 
of  it  still  to  come. 

Emigrant    or    passenger    by    luxu- 
rious   Pullman    car,  he  will   be   glad  to 
come    near   to    the  refreshing  grandeur 
of  scenery  of  the  Palisades — though    the    finest  of 
this    is    not    seen    without    leaving    the    established 
route,  and  penetrating  a  little    into    the   mountains 
at  one  side.     It  is  here  that  you    come  upon  such 
glimpses    and    vistas    as    the    one    Mr.    Moran    has 
drawn — breaks    in    the    rocky   wall,  through    which 
one    looks   out  on  really  perfect  mountain-pictures. 
There  are  hot  springs  here  ;   and  in  one  valley  a  host  of  them  sends  up  perpetual  steam, 
of  sulphurous  odor,  and  the  ground  is  tinged  with  mineral   colors,  as    at    the    geysers    of 

96 


194  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

California.  All  around  us,  too,  are  mining  districts,  some  of  them  old  and  exhausted, 
some  still  flourishing.  To  the  pioneers  they  all  have  association  with  "lively  times;" 
the  veterans  talk  of  "the  Austin  excitement,"  and  the  famous  "Washoe  time" — periods 
which  seem  like  a  distant  age  to  us. 

The  railway  and  the  emigrant-road  have  long  followed  the  course  of  the  Humboldt 
River,  but  this  is  not  always  in  sight  after  Battle  Mountain — named  from  an  old  Indian 
combat — is  passed ;  and  finally  it  is  lost  to  view  altogether,  and  the  road  runs  by  the 
fresh,  bright-looking  little  station  of  Humboldt  itself;  past  Golconda,  and  Winnemucca, 
and  Lovelock's,  and  Brown's — names  that  have  histories ;  and  finally  Wadsworth  is 
reached,  cheerfully  hailed  as  the  beginning  of  the  "  Sacramento  division,"  a  title  that 
reads  already  like  the  California  names.  And  here  the  Plains  are  done — the  Sierras  fairly 
begin. 

The  monotony  of  the  view  begins  to  change ;  the  mountains  slope  about  us,  as  we 
enter  the  well-named  Pleasant  Valley,  through  which  Truckee  River  flows,  and  at  last, 
passing  through  well-wooded  land  again,  reach  Truckee  itself,  a  little  city  in  the  wilderness, 
standing  among  the  very  main  ridges  of  the  Sierra  chain.  The  town — the  first  of  the 
stations  within  the  actual  limits  of  California — is  a  picturesque,  bright  place  of  six  thou- 
sand inhabitants — a  place  that  has  had  its  "  great  fire,"  its  revival,  its  riots,  and  adven- 
tures, not  a  whit  behind  those  of  the  larger  mining  towns  farther  toward  the  interior 
of  the  State. 

Along  the  rocky  shores  of  its  river  lie  the  noblest  scenes  ;  the  tall  cliffs  are  ragged 
and  bare,  but  pine-tree-crowned  ;  the  rock-broken  water  ripples  and  thunders  through 
gorges  and  little  stretches  of  fertile  plain  ;  and  the  buzzing  saw-mills  of  an  incipient 
civilization  hum  with  a  homelike,  New-England  sound  on  its  banks.  From  the  town 
itself,  stages — the  stages  of  luxury  and  civilization,  too — carry  the  traveller  to  the  beauti- 
ful and  now  well-known  Donner  Lake,  only  two  or  three  miles  away.  The  great  sheet 
of  clear  and  beautiful  water  lies  high  up  in  the  mountains,  between  steep  sides,  and  in 
the  midst  of  the  wildest  and  most  picturesque  of  the  scenery  of  the  Sierra  summits. 
The  depth  of  the  lake  is  very  great,  but  its  waters  are  so  transparent  that  one  can  look 
down  many  fathoms  into  them ;  they  are  unsullied  by  any  disturbance  of  soil  or  sand, 
for  they  lie  in  a  bed  formed  almost  entirely  of  the  solid  rock. 

Few  things  could  have  more  perfect  beauty  than  this  mountain-lake,  and  its  even 
more  famous  neighbor.  Lake  Tahoe,  some  fifteen  miles  farther  to  the  south.  The  scene 
is  never  twice  the  same.  Though  it  lies  under  the  unbroken  sunlight  through  a  great 
part  of  the  summer  weather,  there  is  perpetual  variation  in  the  great  mountain-shad- 
ows, and  in  breeze  and  calm  on  the  surface.  There  is  a  climate  here  that  makes  almost 
the  ideal  atmosphere.  It  is  neither  cold  to  chilliness  nor  warm  to  discomfort,  but  always 
bracing,  invigorating,  inspiring  with  a  kind  of  pleasant  and  energetic  intoxication.  Already 
invalids  come  to  these  saving  lakes  from  east  and  west,  and  find  new  life  up  among  the 


&u    "• 


DONNER     LAKE,     NEVADA. 


196  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

pines  and  summits.  There  are  trout  in  the  waters  around,  and  fishing  here  is  more  than 
sport — it  is  a  lounge  in  dream-land,  a  rest  in  a  region  hardly  surpassed  anywhere  on  the 
globe. 

Here,  as  elsewhere  in  the  Sierras,  the  rock-forms  are  picturesque  and  grand  at  all 
points  of  the  view.  Castellated,  pinnacled,  with  sides  like  perpendicular  walls,  and  sum- 
mits like  chiselled  platforms,  they  give  a  strangely  beautiful  aspect  to  every  shore  and 
gorge  and  valley.  The  road,  twelve  miles  in  length,  by  which  Lake  Tahoe  is  reached 
from  Truckee,  affords  some  of  the  most  remarkable  and  memorable  views  of  these  forma- 
tions, with  all  their  singularities  of  outline,  that  can  be  obtained  in  any  accessible  region 
in  this  part  of  the  range  ;  and  it  would  be  impossible  to  find  a  more  glorious  drive 
than  is  this  along  the  edge  of  the  river-bed,  over  a  w^ell-graded  path,  through  the  very 
heart  of  one  of  the  noblest  groups  of  the  Sierra  chain.  It  is  a  ride  to  be  remembered 
with  the  great  passes  of  the  world — with  the  Swiss  mountain-roads,  and  the  ravines  of 
Greece — in  its  own  way  as  beautiful  and  grand  as  these.  The  great  canons,  and  such 
noble  breaks  in  the  rock-wall  as  can  give  us  glimpses  like  that  of  the  Giant's  Gap,  and 
a  hundred  others,  are  certainly  among  the  vistas  through  which  one  looks  upon  the 
chosen  scenes  of  the  whole  world. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  traveller  is  here  in  the  very  centre  of  the  mountain-range. 
The  general  features  of  structure  in  this  most  noble  region  of  the  continent  have  been 
better  described  elsewhere  than  we  can  show  them  in  our  own  words. 

"  For  four  hundred  miles,"  says  Mr.  Clarence  King,  who  knows  these  mountains, 
better,  perhaps,  than  any  other  American,  "  the  Sierras  are  a  definite  ridge,  broad  and 
high,  and  having  the  form  of  a  sea-wave.  Buttresses  of  sombre-hued  rock,  jutting  at 
intervals  from  a  steep  wall,  form  the  abrupt  eastern  slopes ;  irregular  forests,  in  scattered 
growth,  huddle  together  near  the  snow.  The  lower  declivities  are  barren  spurs,  sinking 
into  the  sterile  flats  of  the  Great  Basin. 

"  Long  ridges  of  comparatively  gentle  outline  characterize  the  western  side ;  but  this 
sloping  table  is  scored,  from  summit  to  base,  by  a  system  of  parallel,  transverse  canons, 
distant  from  one  another  often  less  than  twenty-five  miles.  They  are  ordinarily  two  or 
three  thousand  feet  deep  —  falling,  at  times,  in  sheer,  smooth-fronted  cliffs;  again,  in 
sweeping  curves,  like  the  hull  of  a  ship ;  again,  in  rugged,  V-  shaped  gorges,  or  with 
irregular,  hilly  flanks — opening,  at  last,  through  gate-ways  of  low,  rounded  foot-hills,  out 
upon  the  horizontal  plain  of  the  San  Joaquin  and  Sacramento.  .  .  . 

"  Dull  and  monotonous  in  color,  there  are,  however,  certain  elements  of  picturesque- 
ness  in  this  lower  zone.  Its  oak-clad  hills  wander  out  into  the  great  plain  like  coast 
promontories,  enclosing  yellow,  or,  in  spring-time,  green,  bays  of  prairie.  The  hill-forms 
are  rounded,  or  stretch  in  long,  longitudinal  ridges,  broken  across  by  the  river-canons. 
Above  this  zone  of  red  earth,  softly-modelled  undulations,  and  dull,  grayish  groves,  with 
a  chain  of  mining-towns,  dotted  ranches,  and  vineyards,  rise  the   swelling   middle    heights 


198  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

of  the  Sierras — a  broad,  billowy  plateau,  cut  by  sharp,  sudden  canons,  and  sweeping  up, 
with  its  dark,  superb  growth  of  coniferous  forest,  to  the  feet  of  the  summit-peaks.  .  .  . 

"  Along  its  upper  limit,  the  forest-zone  grows  thin  and  irregular — black  shafts  of 
Alpine  pines  and  firs  clustering  on  sheltered  slopes,  or  climbing,  in  disordered  proces- 
sions, up  broken  and  rocky  faces.  Higher,  the  last  gnarled  forms  are  passed,  and  beyond 
stretches  the  rank  of  silent,  white  peaks — a  region  of  rock  and  ice  lifted  above  the  limit 
of  life. 

"In  the  north,  domes  and  cones  of  volcanic  formation  are  the  summit,  but,  for  about 
three  hundred  miles  in  the  south,  it  is  a  succession  of  sharp  granite  aiguilles  and  crags. 
Prevalent  among  the  granitic  forms  are  singularly  perfect  conoidal  domes,  whose  sym- 
metrical figures,  were  it  not  for  their  immense  size,  would  impress  one  as  having  an 
artificial  finish. 

"  The  Alpine  gorges  are  usually  wide  and  open,  leading  into  amphitheatres,  whose 
walls  are  either  rock  or  drifts  of  never-melting  snow.  The  sculpture  of  the  summit  is 
very  evidently  glacial.  Beside  the  ordinary  phenomena  of  polished  rocks  and  moraines, 
the  larger  general  forms  are  clearly  the  work  of  frost  and  ice  ;  and,  although  this  ice- 
period  is  only  feebly  represented  to-day,  yet  the  frequent  avalanches  of  winter,  and 
freshly-scored  mountain-flanks,  are  constant   suggestions   of  the  past." 

There  could  not  well  be  a  more  satisfactory,  faithful,  and  vivid  general  characteriza- 
tion of  the  Sierra  chain  than  this  that  we  have  quoted  from  the  account  of  one  of  our 
greatest  American  mountaineers.  Its  faithfulness  will  be  confirmed  by  every  view,  gained 
from  whatever  point,  of  the  series  of  giant  peaks  that  lie  in  long  line  to  the  north  and 
south  of  our  own  special  route  through  the  range. 

Far  off  from  the  railway-route,  in  those  parts  of  the  Sierras  known  as  yet  only 
to  a  few  mountaineers,  there  is  Alpine  scenery,  not  only  as  grand  as  the  great,  world- 
known  views  in  the  heart  of  Switzerland,  but  even  of  almost  the  same  character.  Who- 
ever reads  Mr.  King's  "Ascent  of  Mount  Tyndall"  will  find  no  more  inspiriting  record 
of  mountain-climbing  in  all  the  records  of  the  Alpine  Club.  Indeed,  this  range  will 
be  the  future  working-ground  of  many  an  enthusiastic  successor  of  the  Tyndalls  and 
Whympers  of  our  time,  and  the  scene  of  triumphs  like  that  of  the  great  ascent  of  the 
before  unconquered  Matterhorn  ;  perhaps — though  Heaven  forbid ! — the  witness  of  disas- 
ters as  unspeakably  terrible   as   the  awful   fall   of   Douglas   and   his  fellows. 

In  reading  what  Mr.  King  and  his  companions  have  written  of  the  wonderful  hidden 
regions  of  the  great  chain,  which,  for  a  time  at  least,  we  must  know  only  through  these 
interpreters,  we,  and  every  reader,  must  be  particularly  struck  by  one  characteristic,  which 
they  all  note  in  the  scenes  that  they  describe.  This  is  the  majesty  of  their  desolation — 
the  spell  of  the  unknown  and  the  unvisited.  Mighty  gorges,  with  giant  sides,  bearing 
the  traces  of  great  glacial  movements,  and  watched  over  by  truly  Alpine  pinnacles  of  ice 
and  snow,  are  the  weird  passes  into  the  silent  region    that    surrounds    the    highest    peaks 


SUMMIT     OF     THE     SIERRAS. 


200 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


within  the  limits  of  the  United  States.  In  the  bottom  of  these  deep  canons  are  lakes, 
frozen  during  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  and  at  other  times  lying  with  motionless 
water,  never  touched  by  canoe  or  keel. 

Against  the  great  precipices  of  the  ravines  are  piles  of  d(^bris  such  as  are  familiar 
to  every  traveller  through  the  passes  of  the  Alps.  Snow,  encrusted  with  an  icy,  brittle 
crust,  lies  heaped  against  other  portions  of  the  rocky  walls,  and  crowns  their  tops. 

High  up,  there  are  vast  glacial  formations ;  moraines,  that  lie  in  long  ridges,  with 
steeply-sloping  summits,  so  narrow  and  sharp  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  walk  along 
them.  Here,  too,  are  structures  of  ice,  pinnacles  and  needles  and  towers,  and  sometimes 
piles  which  have  formed  against  walls  of  rock,  but  have  melted  away  until  they  are  like 
great  sheets  of  glass  standing  on  edge,  while  through  them  a  blue,  cold  light  is   cast  into 


mm 

hi  ^ 


^ 


^1 


I 
I 


THE    PLAINS   AND    THE    SIERRAS. 


20I 


the  chasm  that  now  intervenes  between  them  and  their  former  precipitous  supports. 
Almost  every  phase  in  the  phenomena  of  Alpine  scenery  is  repeated  here — often  with 
greater  beauty  than  in  that  of  Switzerland  even,  with  which  the  very  word  "  Alpine  "  has 
become  so  entirely  associated  by  usage. 

In  this  region  of  hidden  grandeur  lies  the  ground  of  hope  for  those  cosmopolitan 
tourists  who  complain  that  the  world  is  a  small  place,  full  of  hackneyed  scenes,  after  all. 
So  long  as  there  is  locked  up  here  in  our  great  mountain-chain  such  a  glory  as  the  few 
who  have  penetrated  into  its  fortresses  have  described,  even  the  mountaineer  who  fancies 
he  has  exhausted  two  continents,  need  never  despair. 

One  noble  feature  of  the  whole  Sierra — of  all  of  it  save  that  which  lies  above  the 
level  of  any  vegetable  life — is  its  magnificent  forest-covering.  It  may  well  be  doubted  if 
the  growth  of  forests  of  pine  is  ever  seen  in  greater  perfection  than  is  found  here. 
These  tall,  straight,  noble  shafts  are  the  very  kings  of  trees.  Covering  the  great  slopes 
with  a  dense  mantle  of  sombre  green,  they  lend  a  wonderful  dignity  to  the  peaks,  as 
one  looks  upon  them  from  a  distance  ;  and,  to  one  already  in  the  forest,  they  seem  the 
worthy  guardians  of  the  mountain-sides.  They  are  magnificent  in  size,  as  they  are  admi- 
rable in  proportion.  No  mast  or  spar  ever  shaped  by  men's  hands  exceeds  the  already 
perfect  grace  of  their  straight,  unbroken  trunks.  They  are  things  to  study  for  their  mere 
beauty  as  individual  trees,  apart  from  their  effect  upon  the  general  landscape,  which  even 
without  them  would  be  wild  and  picturesque  enough. 

Of  all  these  features  of  the  noble  Sierra  scenery,  of  which  we  have  said  so  much, 
and  spoken  with  such  positive  enthusiasm,  the  traveller  by  the  railway  sees  little  or 
nothing.     For  through  the  very  finest  regions  of  the  mountains  the  track  is  of  necessity 


The   San  Joaquin   River. 


97 


.    THE    PLAINS    AND     THE    SIERRAS.  203 

covered  in  by  strong  snow-sheds,  extending,  with  only  trifling  breaks,  for  many  miles. 
Indispensable  as  they  are,  no  one  has  passed  through  their  long,  dark  tunnels  without 
feeling  a  sense  of  personal  wrong  that  so  much  that  is  beautiful  should  be  so  shut  out 
from  view.  Through  breaks  and  openings  he  looks  down  into  dark  canons,  with  pine- 
covered  sides,  and  catches  a  ghmpse  of  a  foaming  river  hundreds  of  feet  below,  when 
suddenly  the  black  wall  of  boards  and  posts  closes  in  again  upon  the  train,  and  the 
picture  is  left  incomplete.  That  happiest  of  men,  the  lover  of  the  picturesque  who  has 
the  leisure  to  indulge  his  love,  must  not  fail  to  leave  the  travelled  route  here  for  days, 
and  to  satisfy  himself  with  all  the  grander  aspects  of  what  he  will  find  about  him. 

The  railway  passes  on  from  Truckee,  climbing  a  gradual  slope  to  Summit,  fifteen 
miles  farther,  the  highest  station  on  the  Central  Pacific,  though  still  lower  than  Sherman, 
of  which  we  spoke  long  ago.  Summit,  standing  at  the  highest  point  of  this  pass  through 
the  range,  is  at  an  altitude  of  seven  thousand  and  forty-two  feet  above  the  level  of  the 
sea ;  and,  to  reach  it,  the  track  has  ascended  twenty-five  hundred  feet,  say  the  guides,  in 
fifty  miles ;  and  in  the  hundred  and  four  miles  between  this  and  Sacramento,  on  the 
plain  beyond,  the  descent  must  again  be  made  to  a  point  only  fifty-six  feet  above  sea-level. 

This  part  of  the  journey — the  western  descent  from  Summit — is  one  that  the  writer 
has  several  times  reached  just  at  the  most  glorious  period  of  sunrise.  There  can  be  no 
more  perfect  scene.  The  road  winds  along  the  edges  of  great  precipices,  and  in  the  deep 
canons  below  the  shadows  are  still  lying.  Those  peaks  above  that  are  snow-covered  catch 
the  first  rays  of  the  sun,  and  glow  with  wonderful  color.  Light  wreaths  of  mist  rise  up 
to  the  end  of  the  zone  of  pines,  and  then  drift  away  into  the  air,  and  are  lost.  All 
about  one  the  aspect  of  the  mountains  is  of  the  wildest,  most  intense  kind  ;  for  by  that 
word  "  intense "  something  seems  to  be  expressed  of  the  positive  force  there  is  in  it  that 
differs  utterly  from  the  effect  of  such  a  scene  as  lies  passive  for  our  admiration.  This  is 
grand ;  it  is  magnetic ;  there  is  no  escaping  the  wonder-working  influence  of  the  great 
grouping  of  mountains  and  ravines,  of  dense  forests,  and  ragged  pinnacles  of  rock. 

But  soon  the  mountains  seem  to  fade  away,  and  before  we  realize  it  we  are 
among  the  foot-hills  —  those  oak-clad  or  bare  brown  hills,  that,  as  Mr.  King  told  us 
in  the  passage  we  quoted,  "  wander  out  into  the  great  plain  like  coast  promontories, 
enclosing  yellow,  or,  in  the  spring-time,  green  bays  of  prairie."  And  so  out  upon  the 
plain  of  the  San  Joaquin.  We  might  fancy  ourselves  back  again  upon  the  Plains  were 
it  not  for  the  still  farther  range  of  heights  before  us.  These  are  brown,  bare,  unpict- 
uresque,  outlying  hills,  and  we  dash  through  them  by  Livermore's  Pass,  having  passed 
Sacramento,  and  go  on  our  way  toward  the  coast. 

Civilization  appears  again  ;  houses  and  towns  begin  to  line  the  track  ;  the  stations 
are  like  similar  places  in  the  East ;  the  prosaic  railway-pedlers  come  back  again  with  their 
hated  wares ;  for  us,  the  picturesque  is  over ;  and  already  the  hum  of  the  still  distant  city 
seems  almost  to  reach  our  ears,  as  we  dash  in  under  the  great  green  oaks  of  Oakland. 


THE    SUSQUEHANNA. 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS     BY     GRANVILLE     PERKINS. 


f  ^HE  Susquehanna  is  considered  with  justice  one  of  the  most  picturesque  streams  of 
^  America.  It  is  true  that  the  scenery  along  its  banks  seldom  reaches  to  sublime 
effects ;  but  these  do  not  touch  the  artist's  inmost  heart  so  deeply  as  the  softer  beauties 
which  are  displayed  from  its  sources  almost  to  its  entrance  into  the  Chesapeake  Bay. 
There  are  no  yawning  precipices,  no  bare,  tremendous  cliffs,  no  savage  rocks,  no  "  antres 
vast."  But,  in  their  stead,  there  is  a  constant  succession  of  bold  mountain-forms,  wooded 
from  the  base  to  the  summit ;    of  deep   ravines,  where  the  pines  stand  in  serried  shadow, 


THE    SUSQUEHANNA. 


205 


like  spearmen  of  Titanic  mould  in  ambush  ;  of  winding  banks,  whose  curves  are  of  the 
most  exquisite  beauty ;  of  broad  sheets  of  brown  water,  swift  and  untamable,  whose  rapid 
flow  has  never  been  subjected  to  the  curbing  of  navigation  ;  of  a  superb  vegetation,  that 
clothes  with  equal  splendor  the  valley  and  the  hill-tops,  the  banks,  the  islands  of  the 
river,  and  the  undulating  plains  here  and  there  breaking  through  the  leaguer  of  the 
mountain-ranges.  All  these  attractions — these  gifts  of  a  tender,  loving  mother  Nature — 
have    been    bestowed    upon    the    Susquehanna ;    and  the  tourist  who    has    drunk    them    in 


Above   Columbia. 


with  rapture  would  be  loath  to  exchange  them  for  mountains  that  invade  the  skies,  and 
whose  sullen  peaks  are  covered  with  a  snow-mantle  fringed  with  glittering  glaciers.  For 
the  Susquehanna  is  not  only  beautiful  in  itself,  but  its  attractions  are  greatly  enhanced 
by  the  soft,  silvery  haze  through  which  they  are  presented.  This  gives  to  its  scenery  an 
indescribable  charm,  which  defies  alike  the  pencil  and  the  pen,  but  which  never  fails  to 
make  itself  felt  by  the  heart. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  all  of  the  Susquehanna  scenery  is  not  beautiful.     The  end- 


206 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


W'" 


ing  is  dull  and  prosaic ;  and 
the  long  stretch  south  of  Co- 
lumbia, in  Lancaster  Coun- 
ty, Pennsylvania,  to  Havre 
de  Grace,  in  Maryland,  pre- 
sents nothing  worthy  of 
commemoration  by  the  pen- 
cil or  comment  by  the  pen. 
All  that  can  be  seen  is  a 
broad  stretch  of  brown  wa- 
ters, and  bare,  dull  banks, 
with  patches,  here  and  there, 
of  luxuriant  vegetation,  and 
intervals  of  cultivated  ground. 
Above  Columbia,  commen- 
ces the  beautiful  land.  Here 
several  railroads  make  a  junc- 
tion, and  the  trunk-line  then 
follows  the  path  of  the  riv- 
er, which  is  due  northward. 
Here  we  meet  the  hilly 
country — waves  of  the  main 
ranges  of  the  Blue  Moun- 
tains, so  called  because,  be- 
ing wooded  to  the  very 
summits,  an  unusual  amount 
of  the  cerulean  haze  is  seen 
by  the  eye  at  a  distance, 
and  the  hills  appear  intense- 
ly blue.  The  Muse  who 
presides  over  geographical 
baptisms  has  not  ratified  the 
nomenclature  of  the  people, 
and  has  ignored  the  name 
of  "  Blue  Mountains,"  pre- 
ferring the  Indian  denomi- 
nation of  "  Kittatinnies,"  a 
word  which  is  easier  to  pro- 
nounce  than  it  appears,  and 


THE    SUSQUEHANNA. 


207 


has  a  soft  swell  about  it,  very  pleasant  to  the  ear,  like  most  of  the  old  Indian 
names.  The  railway  skirts  the  base  of  these  mountains,  running  along  the  eastern 
bank  of  the  river,  and  affords,  from  the  windows  of  its  cars,  ample  opportunities  for 
inspection  and  admiration.  To  the  right,  the  mountains  rise  up  in  grand,  rounded 
masses,  with  an  inexhaustible  wealth  of  noble  trees  down  their  sides.  Nowhere  can  one 
see  such  superb  forms  of  vegetation  as  on  the  side  of  a  mountain,  for  here  they  are  fully 
developed,  whereas  in  the  forests  they  grow  spindling,  having  excessively  tall,  thin  trunks, 
and  a  head  of  small  branches,  but  nothing  in  the  middle.  They  are  choked  for  want  of 
air ;    and    so    they    aspire    toward    the    sky,    having    no    marked    development    save    that 


Glimpse    of   the    Susquehanna,    from    Kittatinny    Mountains. 


which  is  upward.  But  on  the  mountain-side  every  tree  has  all  the  airy  food  it  needs; 
and  so  they  become  perfected,  and  put  forth  in  every  direction,  having  superb  branches  on 
every  side,  and  great  roots  that  clasp  with  intense  embraces  masses  of  solid  rock,  often 
split  asunder  by  this  twining.  On  the  bowlder-covered  ground  is  a  superbly  colored  car- 
pet of  many  kinds  of  undergrowth  convolvuli  and  creepers,  wild  grape-vines  and  huckle- 
berries, flowers  of  a  hundred  different  kinds,  and  humble  strawberries  that  cling  to  the 
ground  as  if  to  hide  themselves  and  their  delicate  points  of  crimson  fruit.  On  the  left 
hand  rushes  the  river,  sweeping  onward  to  the  sea,  bearing  no  traces  of  that  lumber- 
trade  which  in  the  upper  parts  is  all  in  all.      Scattered  over  the  surface  of  the  gleaming 


208 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


waters  are  islands,  too  small  to  be  habitable,  covered  with  the  densest  vegetation,  that 
fairly  glows  with  vivid  hues  of  green.  Around  the  edges  of  these  islets — these  gems  of 
the  stream — are  often  bands  of  broad-leaved  rushes,  that  sigh  plaintively  as  the  wind 
passes  over,  as  if  there  was  much  excellent  music  in  them,  like  Hamlet's  flute,  if  one 
knew  how  to  get  it  out.  Onward  rushes  the  train  with  its  freight  of  tourists  and  busi- 
ness people,  and  soon  reaches  Harrisburg,  the  political  capital  of  the  State  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, and  a  thriving  manufacturing  town,  where  there  are  many  chimneys  vomiting 
volumes  of  black  smoke.  It  is  built  along  the  right  bank  of  the  river,  the  houses  of 
the  principal  inhabitants  being  on  Front  Street,  which  faces  the  stream.     The  town  occu- 


Dauphin    Rock. 


pies    the   ground    between  the  river  and  the  hills,  which    here    retreat    considerably.      The 
foot-hills,  or  low  spurs,  are  close  to  the  city,  and  are  beginning  to  be  built  upon. 

Brant's  Hill  is  almost  in  a  direct  line  with  the  crest  of  ground,  in  the  centre  of  the 
town,  on  which  the  capitol  is  built ;  and  the  city,  therefore,  can  be  seen  most  excellently 
from  this  point — lying,  indeed,  spread  out  before  one  like  a  panorama.  But  the  view  from 
Brant's  Hill  is  open  to  the  serious  objection  that  one  cannot  from  it  see  the  Susquehan- 
na, its  bridges,  and  its  islands.  To  view  these,  one  must  be  on  the  cupola  of  the  capitol. 
From  this  position,  still  more  elevated  than  Brant's  Hill,  not  only  can  one  survey  all  the 
city,  with  its  climbing  spires,  its  massive  manufactories,  and  their  aspiring  chimneys,  but  the 


SCENES    ON     THE     SUSQUEHANNA. 


2IO  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

bold  scenery  to  the  northward  comes  into  view,  and  one  has  a  distant  though  beautiful 
glimpse  of  Hunter's  Gap  and  the  range  of  mountains  through  which  the  Susquehanna  has 
to  fight  its  way.  There  are  no  less  than  three  ranges,  tier  upon  tier,  standing  out  in  bold 
relief  against  the  sky,  each  range  having  a  different  tinge  of  blue.  Escaping  from  these, 
the  river  bursts,  as  it  were,  into  a  frenzied  joy,  and  from  the  cooped-up  imprisonment  of 
its  sandstone  walls  widens  its  bed  prodigiously,  and  makes  a  tremendous  sheer  to  the  west 
before  it  strikes  due  south.  Hence,  opposite  Harrisburg,  the  river  is  unusually  wide, 
and  therefore  extremely  shallow,  which  increases  the  brown  appearance  of  its  waters ;  for 
in  many  places  the  stream  is  not  a  foot  deep,  and  the  sandstone  bed  is  plainly  visible, 
the  eye  even  catching  all  the  lines  of  its  cleavage.  In  the  centre  of  the  sheer  which  the 
river  makes  is  the  pretty  village  of  Fairview,  to  which  the  Harrisburgers  go  as  to  a  sum- 
mer resort.  In  the  centre  of  the  river,  straight  in  a  line  from  the  glittering,  whitewashed 
cottages  of  the  village,  are  three  islands,  covered  with  fine  trees,  and  of  such  a  size  that 
picnics  are  possible  on  them.  They  are  very  close  together,  but  there  is  a  pass  between 
them,  through  which  shallops  can  glide,  though  overhead  the  trees  commingle  their 
branches.  It  is  glorious  to  be  in  a  boat  here  at  sunset,  for  the  sun  goes  down  in 
summer-time  just  behind  these  islands,  or,  to  be  more  accurate,  behind  the  ranges  of 
mountains  in  a  line  with  the  islands.  Just  when  the  sun  is  beginning  to  sink  behind 
the  farthest  crests,  the  haze  that  wraps  their  forms  is  turned  into  a  golden  haze  of  su- 
preme glory,  and  the  last  rays  come  shooting  through  the  commingled  foliage  of  the 
islands  like  veritable  arrows,  and  fall  upon  the  water  in  long  pencils  of  reflected  fire. 
These  grow  more  and  more  dusky  and  dreamy,  until  they  become  only  faint  blotches  of 
dim  light,  and  at  last  the  brown  stream  rushes  through  unglorified.  In  the  mean  while 
there  has  been  a  battle  between  the  golden  haze  and  the  blue  upon  the  mountains.  At 
first,  the  golden  carries  every  thing  before  it,  save  at  the  bases,  which  seem  mantled  in  a 
brilliant  green.  This  spreads  and  spreads  until  it  covers  all  the  mountain-forms,  and  then 
it  slowly,  slowly  changes  to  its  accustomed  blue.  As  this  takes  place,  so  the  bold  crests 
of  the  ranges,  hidden  at  first  by  the  wealth  of  golden  fire,  struggle  into  existence,  and, 
at  length,  show  vividly  against  the  clear  pallor  of  the  twilight  sky. 

This  is  the  appearance  of  Hunter's  Gap  at  a  distance.  Close  at  hand,  it  has  no 
such  gorgeous  transformations  of  color,  but  it  presents  its  own  distinguishing  beauties. 
The  river  turns  and  twists,  writhing  like  a  fever-burned  mortal,  or  some  animal  trying  to 
escape  from  a  trap.  The  mountains  compass  it  about  on  every  side ;  they  hem  it  in 
about,  around,  east,  west,  north,  and  south,  making  what  the  lumbermen  call  a  kettle, 
which  is  more  poetic  than  it  seems  to  be  ;  for,  if  the  gentle  reader  will  imagine  himself 
a  cricket  at  the  bottom  of  a  copper  kettle,  swimming  around  and  looking  upward  de- 
spairingly at  the  huge  walls  that  prison  him,  he  will  appreciate  the  language  of  the  lum- 
bermen. But,  though  the  general  aspect  is  terrifying,  there  are  quiet  sylvan  nooks,  where 
the  mountains  show  their  gentler  sides,  and,  instead  of  presenting  their  fronts,  turn  to  us 


THE    SUSQUEHANNA. 


21  I 


huge,  undulating  flanks,  covered 
with  glorious  pines  and  noble 
oaks,  spreading  hickories  and 
dark  hemlocks.  These  are  the 
places  where  the  trout  -  streams 
come  singing  through  the  ravines, 
murmuring  their  thanks  to  the 
pines  for  their  shelter  and  com- 
panionship. The  water  of  the 
Susquehanna  is  too  warm  in 
summer  -  time  for  the  speckled 
favorites  of  the  hunter,  and  they 
all  fly  for  refuge  into  these  little  mountain  -  streams,  which  are  their  summer  resorts. 
Along  the  banks  of  these  pleasant,  meandering  waters  there  are  deer  still  feeding, 
and  bears  occasionally  show  their  black  muzzles,  so  that  the  name  which  was  given 
to  this  gate  of  the  river  in  old  times  is  still  merited,  and  there  is  plenty  of  sport 
for    those    that    love    it.       But    there    is    still    better    sport    in    ascending    the    mountains, 


212  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

not  for  game,  but  for  scenery ;  and,  from  the  overhanging  branches  of  the  trees  that 
crown  the  slopes  of  the  Kittatinnies,  gazing  upon  the  ghmpses  of  the  Susquehanna 
that  open  out  far  below.  All  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  water  has  then  passed  out 
of  hearing ;  all  the  fury,  the  vexation,  and  the  struggle  of  the  imprisoned  stream  has  dis- 
appeared, and  the  waters  seem  to  slumber  peacefully  beneath  the  kisses  of  the  sun.  Still 
more  exquisite  is  it  in  the  moonlight ;  and  many  a  hunter,  from  the  solitude  of  his  camp- 
fire,  has  watched  the  white  beams  stealing  over  the  ripples  of  the  river,  and  transmuting 
them  to  molten  silver.  The  gap  proper  is  the  last  gate-way  cut  by  the  river  through  the 
hills ;  but  there  is,  in  fact,  a  succession  of  gaps,  through  which  the  Susquehanna  in  times 
past  battled  fiercely  every  spring-time ;  for  three  distinct  ranges  lie  right  across  its  path, 
which  runs  due  south,  the  hills  sweeping  from  northeast  to  southwest.  Hence  the  gap- 
district  extends  for  nearly  thirty  miles.  At  Dauphin  Point  is  perhaps  the  most  tremen- 
dous of  these  mute  evidences  of  the  past  struggle.  Here  the  mountains  are  considerably 
higher  than  at  the  commencement  of  this  region,  and  the  forms  are  very  much  bolder. 
There  is,  in  parts,  an  appearance  of  castellated  rock,  jutting  out  from  the  trees  which 
grow  over  all  the  mountains.  Here  and  there  are  crags  which  are  truly  precipitous ; 
and  these,  contrasting  with  the  softer,  milder  features  of  the  mountain  do  not  oppress 
the  senses  with  a  feeling  of  awe,  but  only  heighten  and  intensify  the  general  effect, 
acting  as  high  lights  do  in  a  picture.  Here  the  railroad  that  accompanies  the  Juniata 
in  her  wanderings  crosses  over  to  the  Jeft  side  of  the  Susquehanna,  leaving  this  stream 
altogether  at  Duncannon,  where  it  unites  with  the  bold,  whelming,  brown  flood  of  the 
big  river.  The  meeting  of  the  waters  is  the  termination  of  the  gap-region ;  for,  although 
there  are  huge  hills,  and  plenty  of  them,  along  the  river,  it  is  not  crossed  in  the  same 
manner  by  any  succession  of  main  ranges. 

The  scenery  now  takes  on  a  much  more  composed  aspect,  for,  from  this  point  up  to 
Northumberland,  where,  according  to  the  language  of  the  country,  the  river  forks  into 
North  and  West  Branches,  the  hills  retire,  and  the  banks  of  the  stream  are  for  the  most 
part  bordered  by  foot-hifls,  which  are  cultivated  with  a  careful,  intelligent  husbandry,  that 
makes  this  part  of  the  country  of  a  most  smiling  appearance.  Cornfields  wave  their 
tall  stems  in  the  lowlands ;  wheat  whitens  in  broad  patches  along  the  slopes  of  the  hills, 
up  to  the  summits ;  and  the  vicinity  of  the  stream,  where  the  richest  soil  is,  will  gen- 
erally be  found  occupied  by  tobacco,  which  flourishes  here  surprisingly.  As  one  approaches 
Northumberland,  however,  these  foot-hills  become  larger,  higher,  and  less  pastoral  in  char- 
acter, until,  at  the  actual  point  of  junction  of  the  two  rivers,  those  on  the  east  bank  are 
actually  precipitous ;  and,  moreover,  they  are  ruder  in  appearance  than  elsewhere,  being 
almost  entirely  denuded  of  timber.  The  scene  here  is  a  very  interesting  one.  The  West 
Branch  at  this  point  runs  due  north  and  south,  and  receives  the  North  Branch,  running 
nearly  due  east.  The  latter  is  very  nearly  as  large  a  stream  as  the  former ;  but  the 
majesty  of  its  union  is  somewhat  marred  by  a  large,  heavily-timbered  island,  which  occu- 


PINE     FOREST    ON     WEST     BRANCH     OF    THE     SUSQUEHANNA. 


214  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

pies  the  centre  of  the  current.  The  whole  region  is  permeated  by  canals  which  abound 
with  locks.  The  canal-boats  here  have  to  make  several  crossings,  and  there  are  always  a 
few  idlers  at  the  ends  of  the  long  wooden  bridges  to  watch  them  crossing  the  streams. 

Everywhere  around  Northumberland  are  strong  hints  that  the  tourist  is  getting  into 
the  lumber-region  ;  and  the  next  point  of  importance,  Williamsport,  is  the  very  headquar- 
ters of  the  lumber-trade  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  United  States.  The  West  Branch  of 
the  Susquehanna  at  this  place  has  taken  a  bold,  sweeping  curve  due  west,  and  has  left 
behind  it  a  spur  of  the  Alleghanies.  Here  comes  in  the  Lycoming  River,  down  which 
thousands  of  logs  float.  But  down  the  Susquehanna  come  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
oak  and  hemlock,  and,  above  all,  of  pine.  One  cannot  see  much  live  pine  at  Williams- 
port  ;  but  down  by  the  river-side,  and  at  the  boom,  one  can  see  nothing  but  logs  of 
every  size  and  length.  The  children  of  the  street  play  upon  them,  fearlessly  jumping 
from  one  to  the  other,  as  if  there  were  no  cold,  black  water  underneath.  But,  though 
there  undoubtedly  is,  it  cannot  be  discerned.  Wide  as  the  space  is,  the  eye  catches 
nothing  but  a  low,  wide  plain  covered  with  timber.  Of  water  not  a  speck  is  visible. 
Close  by  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river  the  hills  rise  up  very  grandly,  but  on  the  other 
side  of  the  town  they  are  far  away,  for  the  valley  of  the  Susquehanna  at  this  point 
.is  quite  broad.  It  begins  to  narrow  a  little  as  we  approach  Lock  Haven,  which  is  also 
a  lumber-place — a  minor  sort  of  Williamsport.  It  is  a  very  charming  little  place,  very 
bustling,  very  thriving,  and  more  picturesque  than  the  larger  town  of  Williamsport.  The 
canal  at  Lock  Haven  is  fed  with  water  from  the  Bald-Eagle -Valley  Creek,  which  falls 
here  into  the  big  river,  after  traversing  the  whole  valley  from  Tyrone,  not  far  from  the 
head-waters  of  the  Juniata,  the  principal  tributary  of  the  Susquehanna.  Lock  Haven  is 
on  the  left  or  south  bank  of  the  river ;  and  the  railroad  here  crosses  over  to  the  north 
side,  and  continues  there  for  a  very  considerable  distance.  Very  shortly  after  this  cross- 
ing, the  mountains  come  down  upon  the  river,  and  hem  it  in.  These  are  several  thousand 
feet  in  height,  and  present  a  singular  variety  of  forms — all,  however,  pleasing  by  grandeur 
more  than  sublimity.  At  North  Point,  especially,  the  mountain-forms  fairly  arrest  the 
eye  of  the  most  phlegmatic.  In  one  direction,  one  mountain  proudly  raises  itself  like  a 
sugar-loaf ;  in  another,  the  side  is  presented,  and  it  is  not  unlike  a  crouching  lion  ;  in  a 
third,  the  front  is  shown,  and  the  mountain  then  turns  in  so  peculiar  a  fashion  as  to  un- 
cover its  great  flanks,  giving  it  the  appearance  of  an  animal  lying  down,  but  turning  its 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  spectator.  Close  by  is  another  pyramidal-shaped  mass,  whose 
body  meets  the  flank  of  the  former,  forming  a  ravine  of  the  most  picturesque  character, 
where  the  tops  of  the  pines,  when  agitated  by  the  breeze,  resemble  the  tossing  waves  of 
an  angry  lake. 

The  trees  along  the  Susquehanna  are  now  of  various  kinds — oaks,  pines,  maples, 
hickories,  hemlocks,  tulip-trees,  birches,  wild-cherry,  etc. — but  the  lumberers  say  that  the 
pines  were  the  indigenous  children  of  the  soil,  and  that  the  others  have  sprung  up  since 


FERRY    AT     RENOVO. 


2i6  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

they  were  felled.  This,  perhaps,  is  so  ;  for,  in  places  where  there  is  no  access  to  the  river, 
the  woods  are  all  of  pine.  The  lumberers  only  cut  the  timber  where  it  can  be  rolled 
down  or  hauled  to  the  river,  to  be  floated  with  the  whelming  spring-floods  to  the  timber- 
yards  of  Williamsport  and  Lock  Haven,  so  that  those  places  which  offer  no  favorable 
opportunities  of  this  kind  are  altogether  spared.  Those  persons  who  have  never  wandered 
up  a  mountain  covered  with  pine-trees  have  no  conception  of  the  sublimity  of  such  a  place. 
There  is  a  silence,  a  solemnity,  about  a  pine-wood,  which  at  once  impresses  the  senses 
with  a  sentiment  of  awe.  In  other  forests  the  ear  and  eye  are  greeted  with  many 
sounds  of  life  and  glancing  forms.  But  through  the  dim  aisles  of  the  tall  pines  there  is 
neither  sound  nor  motion.  It  has  its  own  atmosphere,  also,  for  the  air  around  is  loaded 
with  the  strong  fragrance  which  these  trees  breathe  forth.  To  speak  with  candor,  it  is 
overpowering  to  delicate  nostrils ;  but  for  strong,  robust  natures  it  has  a  wonderful  attrac- 
tion. The  lumberers  have  a  passionate  love  for  the  "  piny  woods,"  as  they  call  them, 
which  artists  fully  share  with  them. 

But,  superb  as  is  the  sight  of  a  pine-wood  in  all  its  pristine  splendor,  the  spectacle 
of  one,  after  the  lumberers  have  been  felling  right  and  left,  is  by  no  means  admirable. 
The  ground  that  was  once  carpeted  with  the  delicate  white  stars  of  the  one-berry  flower 
and  the  low  glories  of  the  wood-azaleas,  is  now  covered  with  chips  and  bark  and  twigs, 
and  trees  felled  but  abandoned,  because  discovered  to  be  unsound  and  useless.  The  place 
is  a  slaughter-house,  and  the  few  trees  that  have  escaped  serve  but  to  intensify  the  un- 
pleasant aspects  of  the  scene. 

Accommodations  in  the  lumber-region  are  not  of  the  best ;  and  the  adventurous  trout- 
fisher,  though  he  will  have  plenty  of  sport,  will  also  have  plenty  of  annoyances.  It  is  em- 
phatically a  land  where  you  can  have  every  thing  that  you  bring  along  with  you.  Of  late 
years  the  railway  company  have  become  alive  to  the  natural  advantages  of  their  route 
and  the  influence  that  beautiful  scenery  has  upon  traffic.  They  have  recently  erected  a 
fine  hotel  at  Renovo,  which  is  the  only  stopping-place  of  importance  between  Lock 
Haven  and  Emporium.  This  almost  immediately  became  a  favorite  summer  resort,  being 
located  at  a  most  picturesque  point  on  the  river,  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  many 
beautiful  mountain -streams,  in  which  the  trout  shelter  during  the  hot  weather.  The 
valley  of  the  Susquehanna  at  Renovo  is  nearly  circular  in  shape,  and  not  very  broad. 
The  mountains  rise  up  almost  perpendicularly  from  the  south  bank,  which  is  most 
picturesque,  the  other  bank  being  low  and  shelving.  The  hotel,  surrounded  by  beau- 
tifully-kept lawns  adorned  with  parterres  of  brilliant  flowers,  becomes  a  marked  point 
in  the  landscape,  although  in  the  early  summer  its  blossoms  are  put  to  shame  by 
the  wild  -  flowers  of  the  surrounding  mountains ;  for  at  this  time  the  slopes  of  the 
giant  hills  are  everywhere  covered  with  the  pale-purple  rhododendrons,  which,  when 
aggregated  into  large  masses,  fairly  dazzle  the  eye  with  the  excess  of  splendid  color. 
Later,  when    all    the    flowerets   of  the   wild-woods   are    small    and    insignificant,  the    buds 


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SCENES    ON    THE     NORTH     BRANCH     OF    THE    SUSQUEHANNA. 


99 


2l8 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


North    Branch   of    the    Susquehanna,    at    Hunlocks. 


of  the  cultivated  lawns  come  forth  and  renew  the  rivalry  with  the  wild  scenes  around 
them  more  successfully.  Just  opposite  the  hotel  a  mountain  rises  to  a  height  of  twen- 
ty-three hundred  feet  in  one  vast  slope  of  living  green,  ascending  without  a  break 
m  a  grand  incline  right  up  from  the  water's  edge,  whose  brown  flood  is  not  here  broad 
enough  to  reflect  the  entire  outlines  of  the  stupendous  mass.  For  here  the  river  narrows 
considerably,  and  is  very  deep  under  the    mountain-side,  becoming    shallower    as    the    bed 


THE    SUSQUEHANNA. 


2  19 


approaches  the  northern  bank. 
The  Httle  town  of  Renovo  is 
stretched  along  the  Susque- 
hanna side,  its  breadth  being  in- 
considerable, although  the  val- 
ley here  must  be  nearly  half  a 
mile  wide.  The  hills  on  the 
other  side  are  not  so  high  as 
the  one  that  bids  defiance  to 
the  city  folks  in  the  hotel,  dar- 
ing, as  it  were,  their  utmost 
efforts  to  climb  up  it.  As 
there  is  no  road,  and  plenty 
of  rattlesnakes,  few  people  are 
bold  enough  to  accept  the 
mute  challenge.  But  on  the 
other  side  of  the  valley  the 
mountains  are  easily  accessible, 
and,  in  fact,  are  the  daily  re- 
sort of  tourists  who  love  to 
shoot,  or  to  pick  blackberries 
or  huckleberries,  which  last 
grow  in  immense  quantities 
around  Renovo.  There  is  a 
mountain-road  here  which  pen- 
etrates through  the  country  to 
the  southward,  and  the  teams 
cross  the  river  in  a  dreadfully 
rickety  ferry.  This  is  a  species 
of  flat-boat,  which  is  propelled 
across  by  a  man  hauling  on  a 
rope  suspended  from  the  high 
south  bank  to  a  huge  pole  on 
the  other  shore.  In  the  win- 
try days,  when  the  river  is 
turbulent  and  the  winds  are 
high,  the  crossing  here  is  not 
very  pleasant  ;  but  in  the 
jolly  summer -tide    it   becomes 


Canal    at    Hunlocks. 


220  '  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

a  kind  of  pastime,  and  the  visitors  from  large  cities  are  so  amused  at  this  rude  method 
of  progression  that  they  cross  repeatedly  for  the  fun  of  it.  The  view  from  the  cen- 
tre of  the  stream  is  beautiful  exceedingly.  One  gets  a  better  idea  of  the  circular  shape 
of  the  valley,  and  the  manner  in  which  the  hills  have  retired  to  let  the  little  town 
have  a  foothold.  And  there  are  islands  in  the  channel  covered  with  beautiful  mosses, 
and  stretches  of  shallow  water  where  rocks  peep  up,  on  which  gray  cranes  perch  with 
solemn  air,  busily  engaged  in  fishing.  The  shadows  of  the  mountain's  bank,  too,  are 
thrown  into  relief  by  the  sunshine  on  the  water,  and  the  mountains  to  the  westward 
form  a  brilliant  background,  with  their  tree-laden  slopes  brightened  with  golden  tints. 

At  this  point,  though  the  eye  cannot  discern  them  because  they  are  hid  by  the 
mountains,  the  tourist  is  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  numberless  trout-streams.  These 
runs  have  queer  names,  such  as  Kettle  Creek,  Hammersley's  Fork,  Young  Woman's 
Creek,  Fish-dam  Run,  Wyckoft's  Run,  Sinnemahoning  Run,  etc.  The  last  is  a  stream  of 
considerable  size,  and  is  one  of  the  principal  tributaries  of  the  West  Branch  of  the  Sus- 
quehanna. It  runs  up  beyond  Emporium,  and  much  lumber  is  sent  down  its  current  in 
the  spring.  The  Susquehanna,  after  receiving  the  cold  waters  of  Kettle  Creek,  begins  to 
incline  southward,  and,  from  its  junction  with  the  Sinnemahoning,  makes  an  abrupt  turn 
due  southward  toward  the  town  of  Clearfield.  From  this  point  it  ceases  to  be  a  river, 
branching  off  into  numerous  creeks  that  rise  from  the  mountains  of  this  region,  where 
it  is  all  either  hill  or  valley,  and  where  a  plain  is  a  I'arity.  The  land  here  is  cultivated 
with  care  and  success,  but  the  prevailing  industry  is  mining,  all  the  mountains  here  con- 
taining iron-ore.  There  is  some  considerable  difficulty  in  floating  down  logs  to  the  main 
stream  of  the  Susquehanna  below  Clearfield,  and  most  of  the  timber  cut  is  used  for  the 
purpose  of  smelting  or  for  forges,  where  the  charcoal  hammered  iron  is  made.  The 
scenery  is  not  so  wild  as  might  be  imagined,  the  forms  of  the  mountains  seldom  vary- 
ing from  somewhat  monotonous  grandeur,  relieved  by  the  beauty  of  the  forest-trees  upon 
their  sides.  But  for  the  geologist  the  region  is  singularly  interesting,  since  everywhere 
are  presented  vestiges  of  the  grand  battles  of  old  days  between  the  imprisoned  waters 
and  their  jailers,  the  huge  hills. 

To  describe  the  north  branch  of  the  Susquehanna,  it  will  be  necessary  to  retrace 
our  steps  to  Northumberland,  the  point  of  junction.  The  North  Branch  runs  here  almost 
due  east,  rushing  right  through  a  majestic  range  of  mountains,  which  pass  under  the 
generic  title  of  "  Alleghanies."  The  railway  is  on  the  northern  side,  and,  for  a  consider- 
able distance,  is  built  on  a  sort  of  shelf  at  the  base  of  the  mountains,  close  to  the 
river's  edge,  but  separated  from  it  by  the  Pennsylvania  Canal,  which  fringes  this  branch 
of  the  Susquehanna  almost  from  its  sources  in  New-York  State.  The  mountains  here 
are  far  bolder,  more  rocky,  and  with  far  less  timber,  exhibiting  huge  crags  of  a  pictu- 
resque character,  very  unlike  the  small  fragments  that  cover  the  hills  of  the  Western  Fork. 
The    many  chimneys    vomiting    black    smoke    at  Danville,    the    first    place    of  importance 


222  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

the  tourist  reaches,  remind  him  forcibly  that  he  is  not  out  of  the  iron-region ;  and  the 
coal-cars,  which  pass  him  on  the  road,  tell  him  that  he  is  approaching  the  very  centre 
of  the  famous  Pennsylvania  coal-mines.  Beyond  Danville  the  river  makes  a  bend  away 
from  the  overhanging  mountains  of  the  northern  side,  and  approaches  more  closely  to 
the  southern,  which  are  far  more  densely  wooded,  and  have  consequently  many  more 
runs  brawling  and  bubbling  down  their  sides.  The  scenery  here  has  a  peculiar  charm  of 
its  own,  which  is  hard  to  describe  or  to  localize.  The  hills  on  the  northern  bank  are 
distant,  but  there  are  foot-hills  that  come  down  to  the  river.  These  are  often  culti- 
vated, the  fields  of  corn  being  broken  by  dark  patches  of  waving  pines  and  hemlocks. 
At  the  foot  of  these  hills  runs  the  railroad.  In  immediate  proximity  comes  the  canal — 
a  quiet,  peaceable,  serviceable  servant  of  commerce,  vexed  with  few  locks.  Between  the 
canal  and  the  river  is  only  an  artificial  dike  of  little  breadth  ;  but  this  has  either  been 
planted  with  trees  and  bushes,  or  Nature  has  sent  her  winged  seeds  there  to  take  root, 
to  fructify,  and  to  render  beautiful  that  which  of  itself  was  but  plain  and  insignificant. 
This  dike  is  quite  a  feature,  impressing  every  eye  with  an  idea  of  lea/iness,  which  seems 
to  be  the  prevailing  charm  of  the  district.  Beyond  it  the  river,  some  feet  lower  in 
level,  rushes  vigorously  onward  to  join  its  waters  with  those  of  the  West  Branch.  Its 
stream  is  more  rapid,  and  its  waves  are  of  a  clearer  hue,  than  that  which  glides  past 
Renovo,  Williamsport,  and  Lock  Haven.  Rising  up  from  the  southern  bank  are  wood- 
covered  mountains,  boasting  fewer  oaks  and  hickories  than  we  have  seen  in  our  progress 
hitherto,  but  having  a  sombre  grandeur  of  tone  from  the  more  numerous  evergreens. 
The  extreme  background  is  veiled  by  a  soft  haze,  through  which  the  river  looks  silvery 
and  the  mountains  an  ethereal  blue.  At  times  the  sweet  sylvan  character  of  the  land- 
scape is  broken  by  a  numerous  gang  of  workmen  drilling  away  huge  blocks  of  lime- 
stone ;  for  the  foot-hills  are  of  that  structure,  though  the  mountain  -  ranges  are  of  sand- 
stone. Again  we  come  to  a  rough,  irregular  stone  structure,  black  as  ink,  and  surrounded 
by  rudely-arranged  scaffolding  of  a  peculiar  form.  This  is  a  coal-mine,  or  rather  all  that 
can  be  seen  externally  of  it.  Of  iron-furnaces  there  are  many,  and  of  rolling-mills  more 
than  a  few.  These  seem  at  first  like  blots  upon  the  landscape,  but  they  serve  to  diversify 
the  monotonous  beauty  of  the  scenery.  But  the  finest  points  to  the  artist  are  the  places 
where  the  rushing,  tumbling,  foaming  creeks  from  the  mountains  come  raging  down  to 
join  the  river,  and  to  frighten  the  canal  from  its  staid  propriety,  necessitating  great  enlarge- 
ments of  the  dike  and  beautiful  bridges.  These  swellings  of  the  dike  gladden  an  artistic 
eye ;  for  they  are  often  covered  with  fine,  large  trees,  and  produce  all  the  effects  of 
islands  hanging,  as  it  were,  over  the  brink  of  the  river.  There  are  several  places  where 
these  bits  of  scenery  exist — at  Mifflin,  Shickshinny,  but,  above  all,  at  Hunlocks.  Hun- 
locks  Creek  is  not  very  long,  but  it  has  a  commendable  breadth,  and  so  precipitous  a 
course  that  it  is  more  like  a  cataract  than  a  creek ;  and  its  turbulent,  shallow  stream 
carries  down  bowlders  of  a  most    respectable    size.      There    is    a    coal-mine    at    Hunlocks. 


THE    SUSQUEHANNA. 


223 


close  upon  the  brink  of  the  creek,  and  the  miners  down  the  shaft  can  hear  the  growhng 
of  the  water-course  in  the  spring,  Hke  distant  thunder.  For  then  its  waters  are  swollen 
from  the  mountain  snows ;  and  it  carries  away,  encumbered  with  its  ice  -  masses,  tons 
upon  tons  of  rocks,  which  go  hurtling  down  the  stream,  dashing  against  each  other,  and 
crashing  with  as  much  noise  and  fury  as  if  an  avalanche  had  been  precipitated  by  the 
melting  of  a  glacier.      In  our  illustration  on  page  217  is  a  group  of  illustrations  of   this 


Below   Dam   at   Nanticoke. 


region — the  furnace  on  Hunlocks  Creek,  Nanticoke  ferry,  Danville,  the  hemlock-gatherers, 
the  stone-quarry,  etc. 

After  passing  Pillsbury  Knob,  a  remarkably  bold  promontory  on  the  northern  bank, 
the  tourist  arrives  at  Nanticoke,  where  the  river  expands  considerably,  becoming  very  shal- 
low. Here  there  is  a  dam  erected  for  the  lumberers,  though  the  business  is  yearly  de- 
creasing in  this  part.  There  are  on  the  southern  side  broad  stretches  of  fertile  land  below 
the  bank,  and  these  are  cultivated  with  profit — principally  for  the  raising  of  tobacco. 
The  hills  here  rise  in  three    several    ranges    upon    the    northern    side    and    two    upon    the 


THE    SUSQUEHANNA. 


225 


southern,  and  the  effect  from  the  lowlands  on  a  level  with  the  river  is  very  grand.  The 
majority  of  the  hills  to  the  northward  are  not  well  wooded,  and  their  prevailing  hue 
is  a  dull,  purplish  brown.  To  the  south  the  mountains  are  better  wooded,  but  the  slope 
is  very  considerable  and  the  height  not  very  great.  Between  these  the  river  winds  in  a 
serpentine  form,  creating  a  thousand  coups  d'ceil  of  transcendent  loveliness.     For  here  we 


Wyoming  Valley. 


are  actually  entering  the  famous  Wyoming  Valley,  so  renowned  for  its  beauties.  The 
hills  are  not  high,  never  exceeding  two  thousand  feet,  but  the  banks  of  the  river  and 
the  river  itself  form  such  combinations  of  form  and  color  as  kindle  the  admiration  of 
the  most  apathetic.  The  railway  is  on  the  northern  bank,  which  is  the  more  elevated ; 
and,  as  the  hills  on  this  side  are  more  picturesque  than  the  other,  it  is  impossible  to  gitX. 


100 


2  26  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

the  best  view  until  the  river  is  crossed.  This  the  railway  does  not  do ;  and  it  will  be 
best  for  the  tourist  to  stop  at  Kingston  and  cross  over  to  Wilkesbarre,  at  once  the 
centre  of  the  anthracite-coal  region,  the  centre  of  the  Wyoming  Valley,  and  one  of  the 
most  charming  and  prosperous  towns  in  the  country. 

There  is  an  island  in  the  river  just  opposite  the  town,  of  which  the  bridge  takes  ad- 
vantage. From  the  centre  of  this  there  is  a  lovely  view.  One  sees  to  the  left  the  Wyo- 
ming-Valley Hotel,  built  in  Tudor  style  of  gray-stone,  and  forming  quite  a  picturesque 
feature ;  beyond  it  are  all  the  houses  of  the  local  aristocracy  stretched  along  the  bank 
for  half  a  mile.  At  this  point  the  river  makes  a  superb  curve,  like  the  flashing  of  a 
silver-sided  fish,  and  disappears,  showing,  however,  through  the  trees,  broad  patches  of 
gleaming  white.  But  this  is  only  a  slight  glimpse.  The  real  place  for  a  striking  view 
is  from  Prospect  Rock,  about  two  miles  behind  the  town,  nearly  at  the  top  of  the  first 
range  of  hills  on  the  southern  side  of  the  river.  This  post  of  observation  is  on  the 
summit  of  a  jutting  crag,  and  from  its  picturesquely-massed  bowlders  one  can  survey 
the  whole  of  the  Wyoming  Valley,  which,  from  Nanticoke  westward  to  Pittston  east- 
ward, lies  stretched  before  the  eye  of  the  visitor  like  a  lovely  picture.  It  is  not  broad ; 
for,  from  Prospect  Rock  to  the  topmost  crest  of  the  first  range  of  opposing  hills,  the 
distance,  as  the  crow  flies,  is  not  more  than  four  miles,  and  the  farthest  peak  visible  not 
six.  But  this  is  a  gain  rather  than  a  loss ;  for  the  views  that  are  so  wide  as  to  be 
bounded  by  the  horizon  are  always  saddening.  Step  by  step  the  landscape  leads  you 
beyond  the  winding  river,  and  beyond  the  swelling  plain,  to  vast  distances,  which  melt  by 
imperceptible  gradations  into  the  gracious  sky,  and  impress  the  heart  with  a  conviction 
that  just  beyond  your  powers  of  sight  is  a  better,  nobler  clime — a  lovely  land,  where  all 
is  beautiful.  Such  prospects  seem  indeed  the  ladder  by  which  the  patriarch  saw  angels 
ascending  and  descending.  They  fill  the  soul  with  longing  and  despairing  expectation. 
They  stir  the  depths  within  us,  and  send  tears  of  a  divine  anguish  unbidden  to  the  eyes. 
It  is  not  so  with  Wyoming  Valley.  Its  narrow  boundaries  of  northern  hills,  tossing 
their  crests  irregularly  like  a  billowy  sea,  steeped  in  clear,  distinct  hues  of  a  purplish 
brown,  and  having  every  line  and  curvature  plainly  in  sight,  compel  the  eyes  to  rest 
within  the  green  and  smiling  valley,  dotted  with  countless  houses,  ever  scattered  sparsely 
or  gathered  thickly  into  smiling  towns.  Through  the  points  of  brilliant  light  with  which 
the  sun  lights  up  the  white  houses,  the  Susquehanna  glides  like  a  gracious  lady-mother, 
making  soft  sweeps  here  and  noble  curves  there,  but  ever  bordered  by  fringes  of  deep, 
emerald  green.  The  whole  valley  is  green,  save  wdiere  the  towns  toss  up  to  heaven  their 
towers  and  spires  from  numberless  churches,  and  where  behind,  as  if  in  hiding,  black 
mounds  and  grimy  structures  mark  the  collieries.  The  contracted  view  gives  no  sadness 
of  spirit,  stirs  no  unquiet  heart,  like  the  expanded  prospect.  Far  otherwise :  the  soul 
itself  expands  with  love  and  pride  at  the  sight  of  so  much  peaceful  beauty,  so  much 
prosperity  and  happiness,  so  much  progress.     The  beyond  is  out  of  sight,  out  of  thought. 


2  28  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

out  of  ken,  and  the  soul  enjoys,  without  any  drop  of  bitterness,  the  full  cup  of  pure 
earthly  happiness.  He  must  be  a  sordid  wretch,  indeed,  whose  pulses  are  not  stirred  at 
the  sight  before  him.  Too  far  to  be  vexed  with  details,  too  near  not  to  see  distinctly, 
the  gazer  on  Prospect  Rock  views  the  landscape  under  just  such  circumstances  as  will 
delight  him.  Therefore,  all  who  have  stood  upon  these  masses  of  sandstone,  and  have 
watched  the  cloud-shadows  sweeping  over  the  broad  plain,  and  have  seen  the  sun  go 
down  in  beauty,  and  the  stillness  of  twilight  overstretching  the  happy  valley,  have  gone 
away  with  hearts  satisfied  and  rendered  at  ease.  But  this  was  not  always  a  happy  valley, 
and  the  time  has  been  when  this  fair  stretch  of  smiling  green  was  smoking  with  the 
fires  of  burning  homes,  and  the  green  turf  was  gory  with  the  blood  of  men  defending 
their  families  from  the  invader  and  his  savages ;  when  the  Susquehanna  shuddered  at  the 
corpses  polluting  her  stream,  and  the  mountains  echoed  back  in  horror  the  shrieks  of 
wretches  dying  in  torture  at  the  Indian's  stake.  For,  where  the  little  village  of  Wyoming 
rises  beside  the  softly-flowing  river,  the  telescope  discerns  a  plain  stone  monument  com- 
memorating the  awful  massacre  of  the  3d  and  4th  of  July,  1778.  The  valley  was 
defended  by  Colonel  Zebulon  Butler,  with  such  militia  as  could  be  gathered,  against  the 
attack  of  a  very  superior  force  of  British,  assisted  by  a  numerous  band  of  Iroquois. 
After  the  inevitable  defeat,  which  happened  on  the  3d,  the  conquered  retreated  into  the 
fort  with  their  women  and  children.  They  surrendered  on  the  4th,  with  promises  of  fair 
terms,  and  the  British  commander,  to  his  eternal  disgrace,  gave  them  up  to  the  fiendish 
savages,  who  were  his  auxiliaries.  Then  followed  that  massacre  which  sent  a  thrill  of 
horror  through  the  civilized  world,  and  which  has  formed  the  subject  of  the  noblest 
poems  and  the  finest  pictures.  Out  of  misery  came  bliss ;  out  of  defeat,  bloodshed, 
burning  homes,  and  captured  wives  and  daughters,  came  tranquil  happiness  and  a  material 
prosperity  almost  unequalled.  The  whole  valley  is  one  vast  deposit  of  anthracite  coal ; 
and  is  now  only  in  the  dawning  of  its  prosperity.  What  it  will  be  in  the  full  sunlight 
of  fortune  it  passeth  here  to  tell. 


BOSTON. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY   J.    DOUGLAS    WOODWARD. 


^  1  "HERE  was  little  of  the  "picturesque,"  to  the 
-■-  eyes  of  the  Puritan  colony  which  took  up 
its  abode  on  the  main  coast  where  now  stand 
Charlestown  and  Bunker  Flill,  in  the  bold,  bald, 
bleak,  triple-hilled  peninsula  which  confronted  them 
on  the  southwest  It  is  true  that  one  effusne  Pu- 
ritan, with   peripatetic  habits,  wandering  in  the  late 

spring -time    in    the    neighbor- 
hood,   found    It    possessed    of 
^-^ "  =^~  "fan     endowments"    the     hil- 


SLE:y —      ^ 


Brewer    Fountain,    Boston    Common. 


locks  "  dainty,"  the  plains  "  delicate  and  fair,"  and    the    streams    "  clear    and    running,"  and 
"jetting   most  jocundly."     His    less    imaginative    brethren    esteemed    the    promontory  bare 


230 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


and  drear,  even  in  the  sea- 
son of  budding  and  flower- 
ing Nature  ;  for  one  of  them 
describes  it  to  be  "a  hideous 
wilderness,  possessed  by  bar- 
barous Indians,  very  cold, 
sickly,  rocky,  barren,  unfit 
for  culture,  and  likely  to 
keep  the  people  miserable." 

The  Puritans  named  it, 
with  prosaic  sense,  "  Tri- 
Mountain  ;  "  the  Indians 
called  it,  with  poetic  sug- 
gestiveness,  "  Shawmut,"  or 
"  Sweet  Waters  ;  "  and  the 
gratitude  of  its  earliest  set- 
tlers, who  came  from  old 
Boston  of  the  fens  of  Eng- 
lish Lincolnshire,  christened 
their  new  abode  "  Boston." 
The  Charlestown  colony,  like 
the  children  of  Israel,  suf- 
fered from  exceeding  want 
of  water,  and  moved  to 
Tri  -  Mountain,  which  they 
purchased  of  its  reverend 
owner,  Blackstone,  for  the 
absurd  sum  of  thirty  pounds, 
because  of  the  "  sweet  wa- 
ters" which  the  Indian 
Shawmut  promised.  Thus 
began  to  exist  Boston,  with 
its  teeming  memories,  its 
dramatic  history,  its  steady 
growth,  and  its  manifold  pict- 
uresque and  romantic  aspects. 

To  him,  however,  who 
approaches  Boston  by  the 
bay,  it  is  difficult    to    distin- 


BOSTON.  231 

guish  the  three  hills  upon  which  Winthrop  and  his  fellow-colonists  perched  themselves. 
The  city  wears  the  appearance  of  a  single  broad  cone,  with  a  wide  base  lining  the  wa- 
ter's edge  for  miles  on  either  side,  ascending  by  a  gradual  plane  to  the  yellow-bulb  apex 
afforded  by  the  State-House  dome.  Only  now  and  then  is  the  plane  broken  by  a  build- 
ing looming  above  the  rest,  and  pierced  by  the  white,  pointed  steeples  or  fanciful  modern 
towers  of  the  churches,  or  an  occasional  high,  murky,  smoke-puffing,  brick  chimney  rising 
amid  the  jumble  of  dwelHngs  and  warehouses.  Boston  presents  the  singular  contradiction 
of  symmetry  in  general  outline,  and  irregularity  in  detail.  One  scarcely  imagines,  as  he 
gazes  upon  this  almost  mathematically  cone-shaped  city,  rising,  by  equal  and  slow  grada- 
tions, to  its  central  summit,  that  it  is,  of  all  places,  the  most  jagged  and  uneven ;  that 
its  streets  and  squares  are  ever  at  cross-purposes ;  that  its  general  plan  is  no  plan  at  all, 
but  seemingly  the  result  of  an  engineering  comedy  of  errors ;  that  many  of  its  thorough- 
fares run  so  crazily  that  a  man  travels  by  them  almost  around  to  the  point  whence  he 
started,  and  many  others  run  into  blank  no-thoroughfare ;  and  that,  by  no  process  of 
reasoning  from  experience  otherwhere,  can  he  who  sets  out  for  a  given  destination 
reach    it. 

The  visitor  who  reaches  Boston,  indeed,  by  water,  can  hardly  fail  to  be  struck  .with 
the  natural  beauties — heightened  now  by  artificial  adornment — of  the  harbor,  narrowing; 
as  it  does,  in  even  curves  on  either  side,  dotted  with  many  turfy  and  undulating  or 
craggy  islands — long  stretches  of  beach  being  visible  almost  to  the  horizon,  now  and 
then  interspersed  by  a  jutting,  cliff-bound  promontory,  or  pushing  out  seaward  a  strag- 
gling, shapeless  peninsula  of  green.  Almost  imperceptibly,  the  coast  of  the  noble  bay 
vanishes  into  villages — now  upon  a  low,  now  a  lofty,  shore — which,  in  their  turn,  merge 
as  indistinctly  into  the  thickly-settled,  busy  suburbs,  and  the  city  itself  The  islands, 
which  in  Winthrop's  day  were  bare  and  wellnigh  verdureless,  are  now  mostly  crowned 
with  handsome  forts,  light-houses,  hospitals,  almshouses,  and  "  farm-schools " — edifices  for 
the  most  part  striking,  and  filling  an  appropriate  place  in  the  varied  landscape.  Fort 
Warren  and  Fort  Independence — in  the  former  of  which  the  Confederate  Vice-President 
Stephens,  and  Generals  Ewell  and  Kershaw,  were  incarcerated — are  imposing  with  their 
lofty  ramparts,  their  yawning  casemates,  their  sharp,  symmetrical  outline  of  granite,  and 
their  regular,  deep-green  embankments.  Nearer  rise,  from  a  lofty  hill  in  South  Boston, 
the  great  white  sides  and  cupola  of  the  Perkins  Institution  for  the  Blind,  which  Dickens 
so  graphically  described  after  his  first  visit  to  America.  To  the  right  of  the  State-House 
dome  looms,  distinct  and  solitary,  the  plain  granite  shaft  of  Bunker-Hill  Monument.  Be- 
low, on  either  hand,  are  the  wharfs  and  docks,  crowded  with  craft  of  every  size,  shape, 
and  nationality,  from  the  little  fishing-yachts  which  are  wafting,  on  a  summer's  morning, 
in  large  numbers  hither  and  thither  on  the  water,  to  the  stately  Cunarder,  whose  red 
funnel  rises  amid  the  masts  in  its  East- Boston  slip.  An  eye-glance  from  the  harbor 
takes    in    nearly  the   whole    of  the    Boston    shipping.       It   is  modest,  compared   w^ith   the 


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BOSTON. 


233 


forests  of  masts  and  funnels  which  cluster  along  the  East  and  North  Rivers  ;  but  its 
extent  and  movement  give  evidence  of  a  busy  and  prosperous  port.  The  water-view 
of  Boston  betrays  its  industrial  as  well  as  its  commercial  character.  Large,  many-win- 
dowed factories,  tall,  smoke-stained  chimneys,  appear  at  intervals  throughout  the  stretch 
of  thick  settlement  from  City  Point,  in  South  Boston,  in  the  south,  to  the  limits  of 
East  Boston  and  Chelsea,  in  the  north,  indicating  the  weaving  of  many  fabrics,  the  fruits 
of  deft  handiwork,  and  the  transformation  of  the  metals  to  useful  purposes. 

On  its  harbor-side,  Boston  exhibits  its  trade  and  industry,  its  absorption  in  the  busi- 
nesses of  life,  the  sights  and  scenes  of  engrossing  occupation.  Transferring  the  point  of 
view  from    the    eastern    to   the  western   side   of  the    city,  the    results,  instead  of  the  pro- 


Scene   in   the    Public   Garden. 


cesses,  of  wealth  appear.  From  the  arch  in  the  steeple  of  the  Arlington-Street  Church 
[picture  No.  3],  you  gaze  upon  one  of  the  most  striking  and  noble  scenes  which  any 
American  city  presents — a  scene  of  brightness,  beauty,  luxury,  adorned  by  the  elegances 
of  horticultural,  architectural,  and  sculptural  art,  enriched  by  the  best  effects  of  native 
taste,  and  gifted  by  Nature  with  fine  contrasts  of  elevation,  declivity,  and  outline — a 
scene  which  includes  all  that  of  which  Boston  is  most  proud  in  external  aspect.  In  the 
immediate  foreground  lies  the  Public  Garden,  on  a  space  redeemed,  within  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  from  the  waters  of  the  Back  Bay ;  for,  up  to  that  period,  the  waves  reached  up 
nearly  to  the  edge  of  Charles  Street,  which  separates  the  garden  from  the  Common. 
Without  possessing  the  pretensions  of  Central    Park  or  Fairmount,  the  Public  Garden  is 


101 


234  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

a  gem  of  a  park.  It  is  not  certain  that  now,  in  its  days  of  young  growth,  it  is  not 
more  lovely  than  it  will  be  when  its  trees  have  grown  into  leafy  arches,  and  its  clumps 
of  shrubs  into  opaque  copses.  Its  edges  are  even  now  lined  with  thriving  trees  along 
the  iron  railings  ;  winding  paths  lead  in  among  exquisite  flower-beds,  umbrageous  shrub- 
arbors  provided  with  rustic  seats,  fountains  playing  in  marble  basins,  statues  of  Washing- 
ton and  Everett,  and  commemorative  of  the  discovery  of  anaesthetics,  and  "  Venus  rising 
from  the  Sea,"  about  whose  form  the  light  spray  shimmers.  The  borders  of  the  lawns  are 
adorned  by  beautiful  combinations  of  vari-colored  and  vari-leafed  plants.  In  the  centre 
is  a  pretty  serpentine,  crossed  by  a  heavy  granite  bridge,  and  upon  whose  waters  there 
float  swans  and  ducks,  as  well  as  canopied  barges  and  queer  little  craft,  let  to  the  public 
at  moderate  prices.  Close  to  the  lake  is  a  pretty  conservatory,  blooming  with  hot-house 
plants — the  whole  park  being  enclosed  in  a  setting  of  spacious  streets  and  mansions,  park 
and  mansions  lending  to  each  other  the  aspect  of  enhanced  elegance.  Beyond,  almost  hid- 
den in  its  wealth  of  mature  foliage,  is  the  Common — the  old,  historic,  much-praised,  and 
laughed-at  Common — rising,  by  a  graceful  plane,  to  the  State-House  at  its  summit,  here 
and  there  interspersed  with  hillocks,  whose  sides  peep  through  openings  in  the  trees,  and 
at  whose  feet  are  broad,  bare  spaces  for  military  manoeuvres  and  popular  out-door  games. 
Behind  the  Common  you  catch  glimpses  of  the  steeples  and  public  halls  of  Tremont 
[Tri-Mountain]  Street ;  the  historic  steeple  of  the  Old  South,  saved  by  a  miracle  from 
the  great  fire,  which  stopped  under  its  very  shadow ;  the  steeple  of  the  Park-Street 
Church,  only  less  memorable  in  the  annals  of  Boston  ;  the  comparatively  plain,  old  Ma- 
sonic Temple,  now  used  as  a  United  States  court-house ;  and  that  noble  and  lavish 
specimen  of  Gothic  architecture,  the  pinnacled,  granite,  new  Masonic  Temple,  rich  in 
decoration,  and  rising  far  above  the  surrounding  edifices.  On  the  left,  the  aristocratic 
Beacon  Street — on  the  site  of  the  cow-pastures  of  the  last  century — rises  majestically 
toward  the  State-House — its  buildings  piled  irregularly  one  above  another,  of  brick  and 
brown-stone  and  marble,  of  many  shapes  and  colors — the  street  of  the  family  and  mon- 
eyed "high  society"  of  the  Hub.  The  view  in  this  direction  is  most  striking.  To 
him  who  has  gazed,  at  Edinburgh,  from  Prince's  Street  along  the  high,  piled-up  buildings 
rising  to  and  capped  by  the  hoary  old  castle,  this  scene  of  Beacon  Street,  with  the  State- 
House  at  the  top,  vividly  resembles,  in  general  outline  and  effect,  that  most  picturesque 
of  British  cities.  The  principal  difference  is  that,  in  place  of  the  hoary  keep  and  ram- 
parts, there  is  the  big,  yellow  dome,  with  its  gilded  cupola,  and  its  American  flag  floating 
from  the  top. 

Boston  Common  !  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Puritan  training-days,  and  the  rumi- 
nating of  Puritan  cows ;  to  the  execution  of  witches,  and  stern  reprimands  of  women 
branded  with  Scarlet  Letters ;  to  fierce  tussles  with  Indians,  and  old-time  duels ;  to  the 
intense  exhortations  of  George  Whitefield,  and  the  solemn  festivals  of  the  Puritan  colo- 
nists ;    to  struggles  with   British  troops,  and    the    hanging    in    effigy  of   red-coat   foes ;    not 


BOSTON. 


235 


less  to  the  memory  of  thousands  of  lovers,  dead  and  gone,  from  the  time  when  it  was 
the  favored  retreat  "where  the  Gallants,  a  little  before  sunset,  walk  with  their  Marmalet- 
Madams,  till  the  bell,  at  nine  o'clock,  rings  them  home ! "  A  "  small  but  pleasant  com- 
mon!" says  old  Josselyn,  who  saw  it  with  his  critical  English  eye,  fresh  from  Hyde  Park, 
just  about    two    centuries  ago,     A  small,  perhaps,  and  certainly  pleasant  common,  still,  it 


Old   Elm,    Boston    Common. 


is  in  these  later  days.  Indeed,  for  more  than  two  centuries  the  Common  has  been  the 
lung  of  the  town  and  city,  the  most  central  and  the  most  agreeable  of  its  open-air  re- 
sorts, at  once  the  promenade  for  grown  people,  and  the  play-ground  and  coasting-tryst 
of  the  children.  Occupying  a  space  of  nearly  fifty  acres,  there  has  been  room  enough 
for  all ;  and,  while  the  Common  was  long  the  outer  western  edge  of  the  city,  it  is  fast 
becoming  its  centre,  as  the  spacious  streets  and  squares  of  stately  brown-stone  and  swell- 


2^.6  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


front  mansions  are  gradually  stretching  out  upon  the  constantly-increasing  "  made  land " 
of  the  Back  Bay.  The  beauty  of  the  natural  position  of  the  Common,  and  the  richness 
of  its  soil,  have  required  but  little  art  to  make  it  a  charming  park,  gifted  with  all  the 
variety  and  pleasant  prospect  worthy  of  a  great  and  thriving  city.  It  sweeps  down  the 
slope  of  the  hill  on  the  edge  of  which  is  Beacon  Street,  and  at  the  summit  of  which  is 
the  State-House — broken,  now  and  then,  by  undulations  crowned  by  trees  and  carpeted 
with  softest  turf — until  it  reaches  a  lowest  limit  at  Boylston  Street,  on  the  south.  Its 
foliage  no  efforts  of  artistic  cultivation  can  anywhere  surpass.  Many  of  the  trees  are 
centuries  old.  The  noble  rows  of  elms  which,  on  the  Great  Mall  running  just  below 
and  parallel  with  Beacon  Street,  rise  to  a  stately  height,  and,  bending  toward  each  other 
on  either  side,  form  a  grand,  natural,  arched  cathedral-nave,  were  planted  one  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago ;  while  those  of  the  Little  Mall,  running  at  right  angles  to  the  first,  were 
set  out  by  Colonel  Paddock,  rather  more  than  a  century  ago.  These  are  the  two  main 
avenues.  The  thick,  cool  shade  is  gratefully  resorted  to  in  summer;  seats  are  ranged 
along  for  public  use ;  here  Punch  revels  in  his  quarrelsome  squeak  ;  and  candy-venders, 
and  lung-testers,  and  blind  organ-grinders,  and  patent-medicine  men,  ply  their  out-door 
trades;  and  here  the  "gallants"  still  walk,  as  of  yore,  with  their  "madams"  in  the  slowly- 
deepening  twilight  and  the  soft,  moonlit  nights.  The  Common  is  intersected  by  a  maze 
of  irregular,  shaded  avenues,  its  foliage  being  spread  thickly  over  the  larger  portion  of 
its  surface ;  while  its  expanses  of  lawn,  kept  with  assiduous  pains,  are  as  velvety  and 
bright  green  as  those  of  the  boasted  London  parks.  On  every  hand,  the  Common 
betrays  evidences  and  memorials  of  its  venerable  age  and  its  teeming  history,  as  well  as 
of  the  tender  care  with  which  it  is  maintained  by  modern  Boston.  In  one  corner  is  an 
ancient  graveyard,  with  hoary  tombstones,  on  which  the  inscriptions  are  half  effaced,  and 
which  here  and  there  lean  over,  as  if  at  last  weary  of  celebrating,  to  indifferent  eyes,  the 
virtues  of  the  forgotten  dead ;  and  with  embedded  vaults,  whose  padlocks  are  rusted,  and 
whose  roofs  are  overgrown  with  grass  and  moss.  Just  behind  the  graveyard  is  a  small, 
encaged  deer-park,  where  the  nimble  and  graceful  denizens  of  the  forest  graze,  or  sleep, 
or  eat,  mild  and  tame,  and  apparently  indifferent  to  the  gaze  of  the  curious  passers-by, 
who  linger  a  moment  at  the  grating  to  watch  their  movements.  Near  the  centre  of  the 
Common  is  the  "  Frog-Pond,"  a  much-abused  but  pretty  bit  of  water,  provided  with  a 
fountain  and  a  granite  lining,  situated  just  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  umbrageous  hil- 
locks, and  always  a  pet  resort  for  the  children,  who,  in  summer,  sail  their  miniature 
yachts  and  frigates  on  its  clear  waters,  and,  in  winter,  skate  on  its  glossy  surface.  Hard 
by  the  Frog-Pond  is  the  still  proud  "  Great  Elm,"  a  wonder  of  Nature,  and  a  landmark 
of  history.  For  more  than  two  centuries  its  immense  trunk  and  wide-spreading  limbs 
have  been  the  admiration  and  the  shelter  of  Bostonians.  An  iron  railing  preserves  it 
from  rude  abuse  ;  an  inscription  tells  of  its  venerable  but  unknown  age,  its  historic  sig- 
nificance, and  perils  by  wind  and  storm.      It  is  jagged  and  sear,  but  still  stands  vigorous 


f^  V\"tV.    ^^^\\^i^^t^^=■ 


BOSTON     SCENES. 


238  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

and  hale,  with  its  circumference  of  nearly  twenty-two  feet,  and  its  more  than  seventy  feet 
of  height ;  while  the  spread  of  its  branches  extends  across  eighty-six  feet.  Near  by  the 
Park-Street  Mall  stands  the  noble  fountain  given  to  the  Common  by  Gardner  Brewer, 
and  appropriately  called,  after  him,  the  "  Brewer  Fountain."  It  is  an  exquisite  product 
of  Parisian  art,  with  a  lower  large  and  upper  small  basin,  the  water  jetting  from  a  top- 
most knob  and  through  spouts  in  both  basins,  half  veiling  the  bronze  figures  of  old 
Neptune  and  Amphitrite,  of  Acis  and  Galatea,  which  sit  in  picturesque  posture  beneath. 
The  fountain  stands  amid  a  cluster  of  noble  elms ;  and  above  it  rises  the  narrow  and 
pointed  spire  of  the  Park-Street  Church.  At  the  lower  or  west  side  of  the  Common  is 
a  broad,  bare  space,  where  reviews  are  held,  and  base-ball  games  are  played,  the  hillocks 
above  converting  it  into  a  half  amphitheatre,  and  affording  a  fine  stand-point  whence  to 
view  the  displays  and  sports. 

Leaving  the  Common,  and  passing  along  Beacon  Street  and  by  the  Public  Com- 
mon, you  reach  the  quarter  of  elegance  and  luxury  and  lavish  taste  which  has  sprung 
up  entirely  within  twenty  years,  and  is  known  as  the  "Back  Bay"  Penetrating  this 
quarter,  you  have  quite  lost  sight  of  all  that  is  old,  staid,  and  historic,  about  the  Puritan 
capital.  The  aspect  bespeaks  forgetfulness  of  the  past ;  it  symbolizes  Boston  in  its  pres- 
ent and  future  prosperity ;  it  tells  the  story  of  what  fruit,  in  domestic  luxury  and  archi- 
tectural display,  persistent  thrift  in  commerce,  and  the  busy  competition  in  the  active 
walks  of  life,  bring  forth  in  these  latter  days.  The  Back  Bay  is  stately,  without  being 
cheerless ;  it  is  new,  and  not  glaring ;  it  is  modern  and  ornamental,  yet  the  substantial 
New-England  character  is  impressed  upon  its  firm,  solid,  yet  graceful  blocks,  and  broad, 
airy  streets  and  squares.  It  stretches  from  Beacon  Street,  on  the  one  side,  southward 
nearly  two  miles,  almost  to  the  limits  of  what  once  was  Roxbury ;  and  here  a  vast  area 
of  residences — all  of  the  better  sort,  and  ranging  from  pretty,  tempting  rows  of  brick 
"  swell-fronts "  of  two  stories  and  French  roof,  for  the  family  of  moderate  means,  to  great, 
square,  and  richly-adorned  palaces  of  brown-stone — has  been  built  in  wide  streets,  and 
wider,  tree-lined  avenues,  with  now  and  then  a  statue,  and  oftener  a  church  of  the 
modern,  showy  Gothic  or  Flemish  style.  Mansard  is  the  tutelar  architectural  saint  of 
the  whole  quarter. 

A  sudden  contrast  is  it  to  turn  off  from  the  view  of  this  really  splendid  and  brill- 
iant quarter  into  cosey,  umbrageous  Charles  Street,  famous  as  the  residence  of  Holmes, 
Andrew,  and  Fields,  to  pass  up  through  the  sedate  repose  and  dignified  presence  of  the 
"Beacon-Hill"  district.  Here,  in  Mount-Vernon  Street,  and  Chestnut  Street,  and  Louis- 
burg  Square,  is  the  older  aristocratic  quarter,  cast  into  a  majestic  shade  by  its  plethora 
of  ancient  elms,  notable  for  its  tall  "  swell-fronts,"  with  neat,  small  gardens  in  front,  and 
carriage-ways  up  to  the  sombre  doors.  Many  of  the  staid  old  families — the  "  high  re- 
spectabilities" — continue  here,  disdaining  the  temptations  of  the  brighter  and  more  showy 
sphere  of  the  Back  Bay. 


l'^M'^/i)\     mh 


240 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Out  of  this  sleepily-tranquil  neighborhood,  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  hill,  you 
suddenly  come  upon  the  bustle  and  clatter,  the  wide-awake  world  of  trade  and  shopping. 
The  tide  of  business  is  caught  at  Tremont  Street,  to  rise  into  a  rushing,  half-pent-up 
torrent  on  ancient  Newbury,  now  Washington  Street.  And  now  you  are  in  the  midst 
of  business,  official,  and  historic  Boston.  In  Boston,  above  all  American  cities,  the 
charm  of  natural  situation,  and  the  painstaking  of  generously-patronized  art,  are  enhanced 
by  historic  associations  which  will  surely  find  a  place  in  the  great  American  epic  of  the 
future.  In  that  part  of  it  which  lies  between  Tremont  Street  and  the  water  are  most 
of  the  memorable  spots  and  edifices  around  which  clings  the  aroma  of  past  heroic  deeds 
and  noteworthy  scenes.  Here,  too,  are  the  buildings  used  for  public  purposes  and  the 
assemblages  of  the  citizens  —  passing  down  School  Street,  the  high,  granite  City-Hall, 
with  its  half-dome  of  the  Louvre  type,  its  singular  complexity  of  architectural  design,  its 
broad  esplanade  adorned  by  the  bronze  statue  of  Franklin,  and  its  appearance  of  busy 
absorption  in  municipal  affairs ;  near  by  it  is  the  historic,  Saxon-towered  King's  Chapel, 
with  the  graveyard  ensconced  in  the  midst  of  the  living  bustle ;   and  opposite    the    lower 


Boston    Highlands. 


BOSTON. 


241 


Jamaica   Plains,    from   Boyleston. 


end      of     the      street 
stands    the    yet    more 
historic      Old     South 
Church,      staid       and 
plain,  which    Burgoyne   turned  into  a  riding-school  for 
the   British   soldiery,  after   using   the    pulpit    and    pews 
to   light   fires,  where   Whitefield    preached   and    Frank- 
lin worshipped,  and,  since  the  great  fire  of  1872,  serv- 
ing   the    purpose   of  the    post-office ;    and  just    around   the  corner  from  the  Old  South  is 
the  site- of  the  house  wherein  Franklin  was  born. 

The  historic  relics  of  old  Boston — some  of  which,  to  be  sure,  have  passed  out  of 
existence,  swept  away  by  the  exigencies  of  modern  convenience — are  to  be  found  scat- 
tered over  the  northern  and  eastern  end  of  the  peninsula  ;  but  the  tortuous  region 
included  between  the  head  of  State  Street  and  the  northern  limit  is  perhaps  the  most 
thickly  studded  with  memorable  spots  and  ancient  mementos.  At  the  head  itself  of 
State  Street,  in  the  middle  of  the  thoroughfare,  stands  the  old  State-House,  a  grave  old 
pile,  with  a  belfry,  looking  down  gravely  upon  the  haunts  of  the  money-changers  and 
"  solid  men,"  for  whom  State  Street  is  the  centre  and  nucleus,  and  now  given  up  to 
tailors'  shops,  telegraph  and  insurance  offices,  lawyers'  chambers,  and  the  Merchants' 
Reading-room.  Passing  from  State  Street  through  a  narrow  lane,  you  come  upon  the 
most  notable  of  Boston  edifices,  standing  in  a  somewhat  narrow  square,  surrounded  by  a 
constant  and  hurried  bustle  of  trade,  but  preserving  still  the  architectural,  and,  in  a 
measure,  the  useful  features  of  a  century  and  more  ago.  Faneuil  Hall,  built  and  pre- 
sented   to    Boston    by    Peter    Faneuil    as    "  a    town-hall    and   market-place,"  is  a  town-hall 


242  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

and  market-place  still.  It  is  a  large,  rather  square,  thoroughly  old-fashioned  building, 
with  three  stories  of  arched  windows,  surmounted  by  a  cupola,  which  is  all  too  diminu- 
tive in  comparison  with  the  rest  of  the  structure.  On  the  ground-floor  is  the  market, 
which  overflows  on  either  side  upon  the  pavements  ;  the  second  floor  is  devoted  to  the 
great  public  meeting-hall,  with  galleries  on  three  sides,  a  large  platform  opposite  the 
entrance-doors,  and,  over  the  platform,  the  large  and  imposing  picture,  by  Healy,  repre- 
senting the  United  States  Senate  in  session,  and  Webster,  on  his  feet,  making  the 
memorable  reply  to  Hayne.  The  walls  are  studded  here  and  there  with  portraits  of 
busts  of  eminent  men,  old  Governors,  and  other  Massachusetts  worthies,  among  which 
may  be  recognized  Faneuil  himself,  the  three  Adamses,  Hancock,  Gore,  Sumner,  Lin- 
coln, and  Andrew.  Here  are  held  all  sorts  of  political  and  other  meetings,  orations, 
campaign-rallies,  and  general  conferences  of  the  citizens.  The  reader  need  scarcely  be 
informed  that  it  was  in  Faneuil  Hall  that  the  citizens  of  Boston  were  aroused  to  resist- 
ance against  the  British,  and  that  many  of  the  most  memorable  scenes  in  the  earlier 
stage  of  the  Revolution  took  place  there. 

Proceeding  from  this  historic  quarter  southward  by  Tremont  Street,  and  along  the 
Common,  one  reaches,  first,  the  ornate  and  imposing  Masonic  Temple,  with  its  arched 
windows  and  lofty  pinnacles ;  and,  just  beyond,  is  the  stately,  sombre -colored,  substantial 
Public  Library.  At  this  point  all  the  principal  public  buildings  are  left  behind,  and  a 
newer  Boston  is  approached.  Those  who  are  not  yet  beyond  the  climacteric  of  age  can 
remember  when  the  space  which  separated  thickly-settled  Boston  from  the  suburb  of 
Roxbury  was  but  a  narrow  neck  of  land,  which  in  some  places  almost  converted  Boston 
into  an  island,  and  whereon  were  but  a  few  scattered  wooden  houses.  Now,  however, 
this  part  of  the  peninsula  is  as  fully  occupied  as  its  more  ancient  quarter,  but  in  a  very 
different  style  of  streets  and  buildings.  The  narrow  neck  of  land  has  been  widened  by 
the  filling  in  of  new  land,  and  now  constitutes  a  wide,  well-built  reach  between  Boston 
and  Roxbury.  The  whole  quarter  is  called  the  "  South  End."  The  main  thoroughfare, 
Washington  Street,  is,  unlike  its  aspect  in  the  west,  wide,  straight,  spacious,  umbrageous, 
adorned  with  many  handsome  buildings,  marble  hotels,  the  great  new  Catholic  cathedral, 
and  long  lines  of  bright  and  tempting  stores.  The  squares  and  streets  are  regularly 
built,  and,  but  for  the  long  blocks  of  houses  constructed  exactly  alike,  which  give  a 
monotonous  appearance,  the  "  South  End "  might  well  bear  comparison  for  its  beauty 
with  the  handsomest  quarters  of  other  cities.  The  "  South  End "  has,  however,  plenty  of 
light,  air,  and  elbow-room. 

The  suburbs  of  Boston  have  been  well  compared  to  those  of  Paris;  and  Brookline, 
especially,  has  been  called  the  Montreuil  of  America.  The  amphitheatre  of  the  hills,  in 
which  the  peninsula  is  set  as  in  a  frame,  is  almost  circular  ;  these  eminences  are  undu- 
lating, rising  now  into  cones,  now  into  broad  rotundity,  broken  here  and  there  by  jagged 
cliffs  and  abrupt  descents,  dipping  deep    into   leafy   valleys,  and    then    sloping    off  almost 


BOSTON. 


243 


imperceptibly  to  wide,  flat, 
fertile  plains.  Nature  has 
endowed  this  surrounding 
series  of  hills  with  all  that 
could  beautify  and  make 
picturesque ;  it  is  not  a  sin- 
gle circle,  but  many  circles, 
of  uneven  elevations,  one 
without  the  other ;  and, 
from  many  of  the  farther 
summits,  the  city,  with  the 
yellow  dome  and  glittering 
cupola  of  the  State-House 
at  its  apex,  may  be  seen 
throughout  its  extent,  en- 
closed in  a  magnificent 
framework  of  the  foliage  of 
the  hills  which  intervene. 
Especially  striking  is  the 
view  of  the  city,  thus  en- 
closed, from  Mount  War- 
ren, where  the  General, 
Warren,  is  buried.  Mount 
Hope,  Mount  Dearborn,  and 
Mount  Bowdoin,  the  latter 
of  which  eminences  stands 
just  south  of  the  old  town 
of  Roxbury  [picture  No.  7]. 
Upon  the  groundwork  thus 
provided  by  Nature,  all  that 
in  modern  art  and  taste, 
and  in  generous  expenditure, 
could  conduce  to  elegance 
and  luxury  of  aspect,  and 
comfort  of  residence,  has 
been  added  to  the  land- 
scape. Almost  all  the  Bos- 
ton suburbs  are  fairly  bed- 
ded   in    rich    foliage,    much 


244  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

of  it  comprising  the  old  forest-trees,  and  much  also  due  to  the  careful  cultivation  of  suc- 
ceeding generations.  Perhaps  nowhere  in  America  are  the  English  arts  of  lawn  and 
hedge  culture,  of  garden  decoration,  more  nearly  imitated,  or  more  successfully.  There  is 
the  greatest  variety  in  exterior  adornment,  as  there  is  in  architectural  design.  In  the 
midst  of  large  areas  of  lawn  and  copse,  the  square,  compact,  little-ornamented,  sloping- 
roofed  mansions  of  a  century  ago  are  followed  by  imposing,  newly-constructed  mansions, 
with  fanciful  French  roofs  and  towers,  an  amplitude  of  verandas,  and  the  protuberance 
on  all  sides  of  jutting  bay-windows.  In  some  of  the  suburbs  are  estates  which  would  far 
from  shame  an  English  duke  who  dated  from  the  Conquest  ;  with  their  roods  of  hedge 
lining  the  roads,  their  broad  avenues,  winding  through  ravishing  prospects  for  half  a  mile 
before  reaching  the  mansion,  their  large  conservatories  and  cottages,  their  close-cut  ter- 
races, and  their  gardens  abloom,  in  the  season,  with  rare  flowers  and  a  wealth  of  native 
shrubbery.  Any  of  the  suburbs  may  be  reached  by  rail  from  the  centre  of  the  city 
within  half  an  hour,  and  most  of  them  in  half  that  time  ;  and  here  the  heads  of  old 
families  and  the  "  merchant-princes  "  delight  to  vie  with  each  other  in  the  beauty  and  refine- 
ment of  their  home-surroundings.  The  suburbs  of  Dorchester,  which  overlooks  the  har- 
bor, and  of  Roxbury,  next  west  from  Dorchester,  both  of  which  are  now  included  within 
the  city  boundary,  occupy  the  higher  elevations  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Boston,  and, 
although  so  near,  afford  many  retreats  where  one  may  easily  imagine  himself  in  the 
depths  of  the  country.  Both  are  built  on  the  sides  and  summits  of  rather  jagged  and 
irregular  hills  ;  and,  if  we  once  more  compare  Boston  with  Edinburgh,  and  the  State- 
House  to  Auld  Reekie  Castle,  it  may  be  said  that  Roxbury  well  represents  Calton 
Hill.  It  is  the  most  thickly  settled  of  the  southern  suburbs,  and  has  a  pretty  and  busy 
business  square;  advancing  beyond  this,  you  walk  along  shady  streets,  taking  sudden  turns 
up-hill,  or  plunging  downward  with  an  easy  or  sharp  descent. 

Next  beyond  the  eminences  of  Roxbury,  the  almost  flat  expanse  of  Jamaica  Plains 
is  reached.  But  the  beauty  of  the  plain,  lying  coseyly  and  shadily  among  a  circle  of 
hills,  with  pretty  streams  flowing  through  it,  with  a  grateful  variety  of  home-like  resi- 
dences, wide,  airy,  and  tree-lined  streets,  and  a  snug  appearance  which  is  even  more  per- 
ceptible here  than  upon  the  heights,  is  not  less  attractive  than  the  more  lofty  suburbs. 
Many  a  quiet,  rural  nook,  where  the  idler  may  sprawl  upon  the  yielding  turf,  and  angle, 
meditate,  or  read,  forgetful  of  the  nearness  of  the  big,  bustling  metropolis,  or  even  of 
the  more  contiguous  suburban  settlement,  may  be  found  just  aside  from  the  village  of 
Jamaica  Plains. 

The  most  attractive  spot  in  this  suburb  is  a  placid  lake,  lying  between  the  plain  on 
one  side  and  sloping  hills  on  the  other,  fringed  with  overhanging  foliage,  broken  here  and 
there  by  well-trimmed  lawns,  which  stretch  down  from  picturesque  cottages  or  old-fash- 
ioned mansions  to  the  water's  edge,  with  now  and  then  a  bit  of  sandy  beach.  Here  take 
place,  in    summer,  suburban    regattas   and    much    boat-rowing,  while,   in    winter,  "  Jamaica 


C.y\\i"\».\JT_i^\V.V     ^'i.^'y?^N^i\'?-      ^\^     ^^AHX.?'- 


BOSTON     SUBURBS. 


246 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


^ 
u 


Pond "  is  a  pet  resort  for 
Boston  skaters.  Just  be- 
yond the  Pond,  the  loveHest 
of  Boston  suburbs,  Brook- 
Hne,  is  reached.  Brookline, 
on  its  southern  side,  com- 
prises a  series  of  beautiful 
highlands,  occupied  almost 
exclusively  by  large,  hand- 
some mansions,  in  the  midst 
of  spacious  and  picturesque- 
ly-wooded parks.  It  is  a 
snug,  highly-cultivated,  home- 
like environ,  the  favored  re- 
treat of  the  Winthrops,  the 
Lawrences,  the  Sargeants, 
and  other  of  the  older  and 
wealthier  Boston  families. 
Its  streets  are  broad,  and 
wind  in  and  out  under  elms, 
maples,  and  chestnuts,  pre- 
senting changing  aspects  of 
elegance  and  luxury  at  ev- 
ery turn,  charming  bits  of 
landscape  suddenly  appear- 
ing between  the  trees,  and 
lordly  residences  of  brown- 
stone,  brick,  granite,  and 
wood,  disclosing  themselves 
at  the  end  of  arched  ave- 
nues, and  on  the  summit  of 
graceful  eminences.  Some- 
times broad  lawns  sweep 
down  the  hill-sides  to  dead 
walls  facing  the  streets  ; 
sometimes  only  the  cupolas 
and  turrets  of  the  mansions 
peep  above  the  thick  copses. 
It  is   hard   to    conceive    any 


BOSTON. 


247 


style  of  picturesque  archi- 
tecture in  which  Brook- 
Hne  is  wanting,  from  the 
Elizabethan  to  the  Man- 
sard. Nor  is  it  with- 
out historic  edifices  :  one 
house,  the  ancestral  resi- 
dence of  the  Aspinwalls, 
which  still  stands  in  a 
wide,  open  field,  near  the 
centre  of  the  town,  stur- 
dily supports  its  two  cen- 
turies' existence.  Brook- 
line  is  as  noteworthy  for 
the  beauty  of  its  churches 
as  for  the  air  of  luxurious 
comfort  which  its  resi- 
dences betray.  The  ave- 
nues leading  from  Bos- 
ton "Back  Bay"  through 
Brookline  are  the  favor- 
ite drives  of  the  city 
people,  and,  on  pleasant 
afternoons,  are  crowded 
with  showy  turnouts, 
horseback-riders,  and  fam- 
ily carriages.  The  old 
reservoir  occupies  the 
crest  of  a  noble  hill, 
and  the  drive  around  it 
is  full  of  pleasant  pros- 
pects ;  while  the  new  res- 
ervoir, "Chestnut  Hill," 
lying  on  the  northern 
edge  of  the  town,  is  sur- 
rounded by  broad  roads 
along  the  granite  em- 
bankments, and  affords 
an  agreeable  limit  to  the 


248 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


drives  from  the  city.  The  pubHc  buildings  of  Brookline,  mainly  consisting  of  the  new 
Town-Hall  and  the  Public  Library,  are  striking  for  the  tastefulness  of  their  design,  and 
their  combination  of  beauty  and  convenience.  Both  are  in  the  French  style,  the  Town- 
Hall  being  lofty,  of  granite,  and  capped  with  a  high  Mansard  fagade.  The  Public 
Library  is  a   snug  little    edifice    of   red   brick,  with   Mansard  roof,   and   having   a   pretty, 


Washington    Elm,    Cambridge. 

close-cut  lawn  in  front.  The  village  square,  lined  with  tall  brick  and  wooden  stores,  is 
one  of  the  brightest  and  pleasantest  of  the  many  village  squares  around  Boston.  At 
one  end  of  it  is  the  railway-statioa,  whence  trains  start  every  hour  for  Boston,  reaching 
it  in  fifteen  minutes,  and  returning  quite  as  frequently  ;  and  from  the  square,  in  all 
directions,  the  streets  branch  off  irregularly,  invariably  lined  with  shade-trees,  and  betray- 
ing the  evidences  of  domestic  taste  and  comfort. 


BOSTON. 


249 


Beyond    Brookline    the   river  Charles 
flows'  through  flat,  marshy  tracts,  westward 
from  the  Back   Bay,  to   the   hilly  districts  of  Wal- 
tham   and   Auburndale,  some    miles    beyond  ;    and, 
on   its  northern   bank,  lies  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge, situated   on   a    broad    plain,  extending  from 

the  Charles  to  the  eminences  of  Somerville.  Cambridge  wears  the  same  aspect  of 
umbrageous  adornment,  spacious  streets,  and  elegant  mansions,  characteristic  of  all  the 
Boston  suburbs  ;  and,  nearly  in  its  centre,  is  Harvard  University,  with  its  various 
edifices  standing,  without  apparent  order,  in  a  spacious  and  shady  park.  Here  are 
plain,  old,  brick  dormitories,  built  more  than  a  century  ago  ;  bright  new  dormitories, 
with  much  ornament ;  a  Gothic,  granite  library,  Gore  Hall,  with  pinnacles,  buttresses, 
and  painted  windows  ;  the  pict'uresque  Appleton  Chapel  ;  the  cosey  Dane  Hall,  where 
the  law-lectures  are  given,  with  its  heavy  pillars  and  severely  plain  front  ;  the  square, 
marble  recitation-hall  ;  the  solid  granite  anatomical  museum  ;  and  other  large  edifices  of 
various  styles,  for  the  different  uses  of  the  university.  The  high  elms,  forming  majestic 
natural  archways,  the  quiet  that  reigns  throughout  the  scholastic  purlieu,  the  singular 
contrasts    between    the    new    buildings    and    the    old,    the    rare    collections    which    have 

103 


250 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


been  gradually  formed  for  generations,  the  venerable  age  of  the  university,  its  illus- 
trious catalogue  of  alumni,  its  noteworthy  share  in  the  history  of  the  nation — all  render 
a  visit  to  "  Old  Harvard  "  one  of  peculiar  interest.  Beyond  the  colleges  a  broad,  wind- 
ing thoroughfare.  Brattle  Street,  leads  past  comfortable  and  sometimes  very  handsome 
dwellings,    in    somewhat    more    than    a    mile,  to   the    beautiful,  hilly    cemetery    of   Mount 


Lake   and    Fountain,    Mount   Auburn    Cemetery. 


Auburn  ;  but,  on  the  way,  several  places  of  note  are  to  be  observed.  One  is  the  grand 
old  mansion  now  occupied  by  the  poet  Longfellow,  memorable  as  having  been  the 
headquarters  of  Washington  during  the  siege  of  Boston,  a  large,  square,  wooden  mansion, 
painted  yellow,  with  a  veranda  under  wide-spreading  elms  at  one  side,  a  garden  behind, 
and  a  pretty  lawn  extending  to  the  street  in  front.  The  next  house  beyond  was  occu- 
pied by    Dr.  Worcester,  the  compiler  of  the   dictionary,  till  his  death  ;   while,  farther   on, 


BOSTON. 


251 


toward    Mount    Auburn,   down 

a  cool,  shady  lane,  is  the  house, 

not    very    unlike    Longfellow's, 

which    is    the    ancestral    home    of   the    poet 

Lowell.     Branching  off  from   Brattle  Street, 

Fresh     Pond,,  a    lovely    expanse    of    water, 

much  resembling  Jamaica  Pond,  is  reached ; 

and    thence    it    is    but    a  brief  jaunt  to  the 

most    beautiful    of    New-England  "  cities  of   the    dead,"    Mount    Auburn.     This   cemetery 

is   built   on   the  sides  and   summits    of  graceful  hills,  and  in  the  shaded    valleys    between 

them  ;    and,    while    Nature    has   been    lavish    with    foliage    and   picturesque    prospects,  art 

has   bestowed    every    various    and    appropriate    adornment.      There    are   lakes    and    ponds, 

elaborate    tombs    and    monuments,    nooks    and    grottos,    and    an    abundance    of    flowers, 

quiet  paths   beside  modest  graves,  and,  on  the  summit  of  the    highest    hill,  a    large    gray 

tower  rising   above    the    trees,  whence  a  panorama    of    Boston   and   its   suburbs,  for  miles 

around,  opens  upon  the  view.      Beyond  Cambridge    is  the  new  suburban  city    of   Somer- 


252 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


ville,  built  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  and  then  comes  the  long,  flat  city  of  Charlestown, 
with  the  granite  shaft  of  Bunker  Hill  looming  conspicuous  and  solitary  among  its 
mass  of  buildings,  steeples,  and  chimneys.  This,  with  Chelsea,  completes  the  circuit  of 
the  Boston  suburbs  ;  and,  after  one  has  made  it,  he  cannot  but  confess  that  the  Pilgrim 
wilderness  has  been  made  to  blossom  like  the  rose,  and  that  no  American  city  has 
been  more  amply  blessed  in  the  beauty,  comfort,  taste,  and  picturesqueness  of  its 
surroundings. 


Charlestown,    from    Brighton. 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE 
CHAMPLAIN. 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    HARRY    FENN. 

T  T  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  in  the  physical 
-^  conformation  of  our  country  the  northern  part 
should  be  studded  with  innumerable  lakes,  while 
below  the  southern  boundary  of  New -York  State 
this  feature  should  disappear.  Apart  from  those 
grand  inland  seas  which  form  the  northern  limits 
of  the  Union,  there  are  gathered  within  the  bor- 
ders of  New  York  a  number  of  charming  ex- 
panses of  water  that  may  be  equalled,  but  are 
certainly  unexcelled,  in  natural  attractions  by 
any  lakes  in  the  world.  There  are  beautiful 
lakes  in  Maine,  m  New  Hampshire,  and  in 
Vermont ;  in  these  States  there  are,  indeed,  fa- 
mous contributions  ta  our  far-northern  lake-sys- 
tem; but  New  York  may  claim  the  palm,  both 
as  regards  the  number  and  beauty  of  its  inland 
waters.  It  is  preeminently  a  State  of  lakes.  In 
the  great  northern  woods  their  name  is  legion  ; 
and  not  only  is  the  western  boundary  encircled 
by  lakes,  but  the  interior  is  fairly  crowded  with 
these  beautiful  miniature  seas,  of  which  we  have 
only  to  mention  Cayuga,  Seneca,  Canandaigua, 
Otsego,  Oneida,  to  recall  to  the  reader  a  suc- 
cession of  pleasing  pictures.  Below  New  York 
the  lake  -  system  disappears.  In  Pennsylvania 
there  are  none  much  above  the  dignity  of  ponds, 
and  but  few  of  these.  In  Northern  New  Jersey 
there  are  two  handsome  sheets,  one  of  which 
extends  across  the  border  into  New  York.  All 
the  vast  mountain-region  of  Virginia,  East  Ten- 
nessee, and  North  Carolina,  is  utterly  without 
lakes — a    singular   circumstance,  inasmuch    as  the 


254 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


conditions  would  appear  to  exist 
for  the  formation  of  these  water- 
expanse^ 

Of  all  the  New -York  lakes, 
Champlain  and  George  are  the 
most  famous  historically,  the  most 
beautiful  in  picturesque  features, 
and  the  best  known  to  tourists 
and  pleasure  -  seekers.  They  are 
united  by  a  narrow  stream,  through 
which  the  waters  of  one  flow  into 
the  other ;  and,  as  we  glance  at 
them  upon  the  map,  the  lesser 
lake  would  seem  to  be  merely  a 
branch  of  the  larger  one.  The 
name  of  "  Horicon,"  which  the  In- 
dians applied  to  the  lake,  is  said 
to  mean  "  Silver  Water ; "  they 
also  had  another  designation  for  it 
— "  Andiartarocte,"  meaning  "  the 
Tail  of  the  Lake."  It  is  to  be 
regretted  that  the  most  beautiful 
of  our  lakes  should  be  the  only 
one  without  either  a  pleasing  or  a 
distinctive  name.  Had  the  lake 
been  a  less  busy  scene,  had  it 
filled  a  less  important  place  in 
our  early  annals,  the  Indian  name 
of  Horicon  would  gradually  have 
been  accepted  by  the  occasional 
hunters  and  pioneers  that  would 
have  reached  its  shores,  and  thus 
attained  a  recognition  before  am- 
bitious captains  had  sought  to  im- 
press the  name  of  their  far-off 
king  upon  it.  The  French,  also, 
soupfht  to  rob  it  of  its  Indian 
designation.  It  was  they,  of  the 
white    races,    who    first    discovered 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN. 


255 


it ;  and  so  struck  were  they  with  the  transparency  and  clearness  of  its  waters  that 
they  called  it  Lake  St.-Sacrement,  and  actually  prized  its  water  so  highly  as  to  transmit 
it  to  Canada  for  baptismal  purposes. 

Lake  George  is  situated  in  Warren  County,  New  York,  about  sixty  miles,  in  a 
direct  line,  north  of  Albany.  It  is  thirty-four  miles  long,  from  one  to  four  miles  wide, 
and  is  said  to  have  a  depth,  at  places,  of  nearly  four  hundred  feet.  Its  long,  narrow 
form  gives  it  the  character  of  a  river  rather  than  of  a  lake,  or,  at  least,  of  the  popular 
idea  of  a  lake  ;  but  many  of  our  lakes  have  this  elongated  form,  Cayuga  and  Seneca 
being  almost  identical  with    Lake    George    in    the  general  features  of  their  conformation. 


Fort   George. 

The  waters  of  Lake  George  flow  into  Champlain  by  a  narrow  rivulet  at  its  northern 
extremity,  the  distance  which  separates  the  two  sheets  of  water  being  not  more  than  four 
miles.  The  surface  of  Lake  George  is  dotted  with  many  small  islands — one  for  each  day 
in  the  year,  so  it  is  popularly  asserted — while  its  shores  lift  themselves  into  bold  highlands. 
The  lake  is  fairly  embowered  among  high  hills — a  brilliant  mirror  set  in  among  cliffs  and 
wooded  mountains,  the  rugged  sides  of  which  perpetually  reflect  their  wild  features  in  its 
clear  and  placid  bosom.  "  Peacefully  rest  the  waters  of  Lake  George,"  says  the  historian 
Bancroft,  "between  their  rampart  of  highlands.  In  their  pellucid  depth  the  cliffs  and 
the  hills  and  the  trees  trace  their  images ;  and  the  beautiful  region  speaks  to  the  heart, 
teaching  affection  for  Nature." 


256  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

Approaching  Lake  George  from  the  south,  the  tourist  takes  the  Saratoga  Railway 
at  Albany  for  Glen's  Falls ;  thence  the  lake  is  reached  by  stage-coach,  a  distance  of  nine 
miles.  If  the  traveller  is  fortunate  enough  to  secure  an  outside  seat  upon  the  coach,  the 
ride  will  prove  to  him  an  entertaining  one  throughout,  but  specially  charming  will  be  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  lake  as  the  coach  approaches  the  terminus  of  its  route  at  Caldwell. 
One  especial  sensation  is  in  reserve  for  him.  The  spacious  Fort  William  Henry  Hotel, 
situated  upon  the  site  of  the  old  fort  of  the  same  name,  stands  directly  at  the  head 
of  the  lake,  with  a  noble  expanse  of  its  waters  spread  out  before  it.  The  coach  is 
driven  with  a  sweep  and  a  swirl  through  the  grounds  of  the  hotel,  and,  suddenly  turn- 
ing a  corner,  dashes  up  before  the  wide  and  corridored  piazza,  crowded  with  groups  of 
people — all  superb  life  and  animation  on  one  side  of  him,  and  a  marvellous  stretch  of 
lake  and  mountain  and  island  and  wooded  shore  on  the  other — such  a  picture,  in  its 
charm  and  brightness  and  completeness,  as  the  New -World  traveller  rarely  encounters. 
The  scene,  moreover,  never  seems  to  lose  its  charm.  Always  there  is  that  glorious 
stretch  of  lake  and  shore  bursting  upon  the  sojourner's  vision  ;  he  cannot  put  foot 
upon  the  piazza,  he  cannot  throw  open  his  hotel-window,  he  cannot  come  or  depart, 
without  there  ever  spreading  before  him,  in  the  soft  summer  air,  that  perfect  landscape, 
paralleled  for  beauty  only  by  a  similarly  idyllic  picture  at  West  Point,  amid  the  High- 
lands of  the  Hudson. 

At  Caldwell  one  may  linger  many  days,  learning  by  heart  the  changing  beauties  of 
the  scene.  There  is  a  superb  bird's-eye  view  of  the  lake  that  may  be  obtained  from  the 
summit  of  Prospect  Mountain,  on  the  southern  border  of  the  lake.  A  road  from  Cald- 
well leads  to  the  top.  Formerly  the  view  from  this  mountain  was  wholly  obstructed  by 
trees,  but  an  observatory  has  been  erected,  from  the  summit  of  which  a  glorious  picture 
of  the  whole  region  is  spread  out  before  the  spectator.  Some  conception  of  this  pros- 
pect— it  is  but  a  faint  one,  for  art  struggles  always  inadequately  with  large  general 
views — may  be  gathered  from  the  first  illustration  accompanying  this  paper.  A  more 
agreeable  idea  of  the  conformation  of  the  southern  part  of  the  lake  may  be  obtained 
by  means  of  the  second  engraving,  this  view  differing  little  from  the  one  obtained  from 
the  piazza  of  the  hotel.  This  prospect,  it  will  be  observed,  stretches  down  what  is 
called  the  North  Bay  (see  initial  picture),  the  main  course  of  the  lake  being  shut  from 
view  by  projecting  points  of  land,  which  form  what  is  known  as  the  Narrows.  At  this 
point  is  one  of  the  most  charming  features  of  the  lake— ^a  great  cluster  of  islands,  num- 
bering several  hundred,  varying  in  size  from  a  few  feet  to  several  acres.  The  nearest 
island  to  Caldwell  is  known  as  Tea  Island,  lying  about  a  mile  distant  from  the  landing. 
Its  name  is  derived  from  a  "tea-house"  erected  there  for  the  accommodation  of  visitors, 
but  of  which  only  the  stone-walls  now  remain.  This  island  is  covered  with  noble  trees, 
and  bordered  with  picturesque  rocks.  Here  parties  come  for  picnics ;  here  lovers  come  to 
saunter  among  the  shaded  walks,  or  to  sit  upon  the  rocks  and  watch  the   ripples   of  the 


SCENES     ON     LAKE     GEORGE. 


104 


258 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Lake    Georgt;,    South    from    Tea    Island. 

transparent  waters.     There  are  many  beautiful  islands  dotting  the  surface  of  Lake  George, 
but  none  more  picturesque  and  charming  than  this. 

There  are  several  ways  of  enjoying  the  scenery  of  Lake  George.  A  steamboat 
makes  a  daily  trip  to  its  northern  terminus,  thirty-four  miles  distant,  returning  the  same 
day.  A  small  pleasure  steam-craft  may  also  be  chartered  for  an  independent  exploration 
of  the  lake ;  or,  if  one  chooses,  he  may  course  the  entire  circuit  of  its  shores  with  a 
row-boat  or  sail-boat.      There    are    public-houses    along   the    route,  at  which    he  may   rest. 


'^i^v  ^'^r- 


m. 


Sloop   Island. 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN. 


^59 


Lake   George,    North    from   Tea    Island. 

The  winds  from  the  mountains,  however,  are  fickle,  and  a  sail  must  be  managed  with 
more  than  ordinary  precaution  and  care.  But  no  more  delightful  expedition  could  be 
devised  than  a  sail  around  this  American  Como,  as  we  frequently  hear  it  called.  The 
wild  and  rugged  shores,  the  charming  little  bays  and  indentations,  the  picturesque  islands, 
the  soft  beauty  of  the  waters,  the  towering  mountains — all  make  up  a  continually  changing 
picture,  full  of  a  hundred  subtile  charms.  One  may,  in  such  an  expedition,  go  prepared 
to  camp  at  night,  thus  adding  another  relish  to  the  pleasure  of  the  jaunt.  Camping- 
parties  are  a  special  feature  of  Lake  .  George  ;  in  the  summer  months  they  may  be  seen 
on  almost  all  the  larger  islands,  adding  a  very  picturesque  feature  to  the  scene. 


The    Hermitage. 


26o  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

Let  us  imagine  ourselves  on  the  steamer  Minnehaha,  gliding  out  from  the  landing 
at  Fort  William  Henry  Hotel,  on  a  voyage  down  the  lake.  Our  first  point  of  interest 
is  Tea  Island,  already  described.  A  mile  and  a  half  farther  on  is  Diamond  Island,  so 
called  on  account  of  the  beautiful  quartz-crystal  found  in  abundance  here.  Beyond  are 
the  Three  Sisters ;  and  along  the  eastern  shore  is  Long  Island,  which  from  the  lake 
appears  no  island  at  all,  but  the  main  shore.  We  pass  Bolton,  ten  miles  from  Caldwell ; 
the  Three  Brothers ;  a  richly-wooded  island  called  Dome  Island,  near  Tongue  Mountain, 
which  forms  the  east  side  of  Northwest  Bay ;  and  then  come  to  the  Hermitage,  or 
Recluse  Island,  where  a  gentleman  from  New  York  has  erected  a  neat  villa  among  the 
trees,  and  thrown  a  graceful  bridge  to  a  little  dot  of  an  island  at  hand.  A  more  charm- 
ing situation  for  a  summer  sojourn  could  scarcely  be  imagined.  Near  Recluse  Island  is 
Sloop  Island,  so  called  for  reasons  which  the  reader  will  readily  detect  ^by  glancing  at 
our  illustration.  There  is  no  prettier  island  in  the  lake.  We  now  come  to  Fourteen- 
Mile  Island,  at  the  entrance  of  the  Narrows,  where  there  is  a  large  hotel.  At  the  Nar- 
rows the  shores  of  the  lake  approach  each  other,  the  space  between  being  crowded  with 
islands.  This  is  one  of  the  favorite  portions  of  the  lake  ;  the  tourist  can  have  no  greater 
pleasure,  indeed,  than  a  winding  sail  around  and  among  these  wooded  and  charming 
islets.  Here  also,  on  the  eastern  shore,  is  Black  Mountain,  the  highest  of  the  peaks  that 
line  the  lake-shore.  It  is  well  wooded  at  its  base,  although  frequent  fires  have  swept 
over  its  surface,  while  the  summit  of  the  mountain  stands  out  rocky  and  bare.  Its  height 
is  a  little  over  two  thousand  eight  hundred  feet.  The  view  from  the  summit  is  very 
extensive,  but,  like  all  panoramic  pictures,  not  easily  represented  by  the  pencil.  The 
ascent  is  laborious,  but  is  often  undertaken  by  tourists,  guides  being  always  ready  for  the 
purpose.  Here  also  may  be  made  an  agreeable  diversion  to  Shelving-Rock  Fall,  situated 
on  a  small  stream  which  empties  into  Shelving-Rock  Bay  about  a  mile  south  of  Four- 
teen-Mile Island.  It  is  a  very  picturesque  cascade,  and  is  specially  appreciated  because 
there  are  very  few  water-falls  in  this  immediate  vicinity.  It  is  a  beautiful  spot,  and 
much  resorted  to  by  picnic-parties.  Beyond  Black  Mountain  we  reach  the  Sugar-Loaf 
Mountain;  Bosom  Bay,  with  the  little  village  of  Dresden;  and  Buck  Mountain  on  the 
left.  Buck  Mountain  is  so  called,  according  to  report,  from  the  tragical  fate  of  a  buck, 
which,  being  hotly  pursued  by  a  hunter  and  his  dogs,  leaped  over  the  precipitous  side 
of  the  mountain  facing  the  lake,  and  was  impaled  on  a  sharp-pointed  tree  below. 

The  next  place  of  importance  that  we  reach  is  Sabbath-Day  Point.  Why  this 
tongue  of  land  bears  this  designation,  is  unknown.  It  was  once  supposed  to  have  been, 
so  named  because  General  Abercrombie,  in  his  descent  of  the  lake  in  1758,  in  his  expe- 
dition for  the  capture  of  Fort  Ticonderoga,  landed  his  troops  here  on  Sunday  ;  but  it  is 
now  known  that  the  point  was  reached  by  him  on  Wednesday,  instead  of  Sunday. 
There  is  also  evidence  that  the  place  was  known  as  Sabbath-Day  Point  at  an  earlier 
period.      This  tongue  of   land   juts    out  from  a  tall,  precipitous  hill,  just  beyond  which    is 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN. 


26j 


another  hill  of  corresponding 
height.  The  intervening  space  is 
known  as  Davis's  Hollow.  Mr 
Fenn  has  sketched  this  scene  from 
the  north,  showing  it  just  as  the 
declining  afternoon  sun  is  sending 
a  flood  of  radiance  through  the 
hollow,  forming  a  rich  and  glow- 
ing contrast  of  light  and  shadow. 
From  Sabbath-Day  Point,  the  view 
up  the  lake  is  grand.  Black  Moun- 
tain assuming  a  commanding  place 
in  the  picture.  The  next  most  no- 
ticeable point  is  Anthony's  Nose 
— ■  a  bold,  high  hill,  whose  bor- 
rowed title  is  an  offence.  There 
can  be  but  one  rightful  Antho- 
ny's Nose,  and  that  we  look  for 
on  the  Hudson.  Two  miles  be- 
yond is  Rogers's  Slide,  another 
abrupt  rocky  height,  at  a  point 
where  the  lake  becomes  very  nar- 
row. The  steamer  hugs  the  pre- 
cipitous, rocky  shore,  the  narrow 
passage  forming  almost  a  gate-way 
to  the  main  body  of  the  lake  for 
those  who  enter  its  waters  from 
the  north.  This  mountain  derives 
its  name  from  an  incident  that  be- 
fell, according  to  tradition,  one  Ro- 
gers, a  ranger  conspicuous  in  the 
French  and  Indian  War.  The 
story  runs  that,  in  "  the  winter  of 
1758,  he  was  surprised  by  some 
Indians,  and  put  to  flight.  Shod 
with  snow-shoes,  he  eluded  pur- 
suit, and,  coming  to  this  spot, 
saved  his  life  by  an  ingenious  de- 
vice.     Descending     the     mountain 


262 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Shelving-Rock  Falls. 


until  he  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  precipice, 
he  threw  his  haversack 
down  upon  the  ice,  un- 
buckled his  snow-shoes, 
and,  without  moving  them,  turned 
himself  about  and  put  them  on 
his  feet  again,  with  the  heels  in 
front.  He  then  retreated  by  the 
way  he  came,  until  he  reached 
the  southern  brow  of  the  rock,  where  he  found  a 
ravine,  down  which  he  escaped,  and  sped  away  on 
the  ice  toward  Fort  George.  The  Indians  in  the  mean 
while  came  to  the  spot,  and,  seeing  the  double  set  of 
tracks,  concluded  that  they  were  made  by  two  persons 
who  had  thrown  themselves  down  the  cliff  rather  than  fall  into  their  hands.  But, 
on  looking  about,  they  saw  Rogers  disappearing  in  the  distance  on  the  ice,  and,  be- 
lieving that  he  slid  down  the  dangerous  and  apparently  impassable  cliff,  hastily  assumed 
that  he  was  under  the  special  protection  of  the  Great  Spirit,  and  so  gave  up  the  chase." 
This  is  the  story,  but,  of  course,  there  are  numerous  skeptics  who  throw  doubt  on  the 
narrative,  and  not  without  reason,  as  it  appears  that  Rogers  was  a  notorious  braggart, 
whose  deeds  and  misdeeds  fill  no  little  space  in  the  local  history  of  this  region. 

Beyond    Rogers's    Slide    the    lake    is    narrow,  the    shores    low   and    uninteresting,  the 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN. 


263 


Davis's    Hollow,    Sabbath-Day   Point. 

water  shoal,  and  soon  the  northern  border  of  the  lake  is  reached.  From  the  steamboat- 
landing  Concord  coaches  run  to  Ticonderoga,  on  Lake  Champlain,  four  miles  distant. 
The  waters  of  Lake  George  flow  through  a  narrow  channel,  at  Ticonderoga  village,  about 
midway  between  the  two  lakes,  tumbling  down  a  rocky  descent  in  a  very  picturesque 
fall.  A  portion  of  the  water  is  here  diverted,  by  a  wooden  viaduct,  for  the  uses  of  a 
mill.  Mr.  Fenn  has  depicted  this  scene  at  the  hour  when  he  saw  it,  with  the  sun  just 
sinking  in  the  western    sky,  and  a  twilight  shadow  darkening  the  tumbling  waters.      The 


Black    Mountain,    from    Sabbath-Day    Point. 


264 


PIC  TURESO  UE    A  ME  RICA . 


vagueness    of  the    semi-light   gives,  with   a  certain   charm    of  mystery,  a  melancholy  tone 

to   the  picture.     At   another  hour,  of  course,  the  waters  dance  and  sparkle   in  the  light ; 

but  there  are  beauties  in  the  gray 
shadows  of  the  evening  full  of  a 
sw^eetness  and  poetry  of  their  own. 
Lake  George  has  many  asso- 
ciations as  well  as  charms.  Few 
places  in  our  country  are  more 
associated  with  historical  reminis- 
cences, or  so  identified  with  legend 
and  story.  Just  as  Scott  has  made 
the  Highlands  of  Scotland  teem 
with  the  shadows  of  his  imagina- 
tion. Cooper  has  peopled  the  shores 
of  this  lake  with  the  creations  of 
his  fancy.  Who  can  w^ander  along 
its  shores  without  thinking  of  Cora 
and  Alice,  and  Hawkeye,  and,  more 
than  all,  of  that  youthful  figure  in 
whose  melancholy  eyes  is  foreshad- 
owed the  fate  of  the  last  of  the 
Mohicans  ?  In  all  American  lit- 
erature there  is  no  figure  so  en- 
veloped in  poetic  mystery,  so  full 
of  statuesque  beauty,  as  Cooper's 
Uncas ;  and,  on  these  shores,  the 
too  frequent  vulgar  nomenclature 
should  give  place  to  an  heroic 
name  like  that  of  the  brave  and 
beautiful  Mohican.  We  have  Rog- 
ers's Slide,  and  Flea  Island,  and 
Sloop  Island,  and  Hog  Island,  and 
Anthony's  Nose,  and  Cook's  Island, 
and  Black  Mountain — but  on  what 
spot  have  Hawkeye  and  Uncas, 
whose  shadows  ever  seem  to  haunt 

the  lake  and  its  shores,  impressed  their  immortal  names  ? 

Lake  George  fills   a    large    place    in    the    colonial    history    of   New  York.     The  lake 

was    first    seen   by  white  men  in    1646,  the    discoverer    being  Father  Jagues,  who  was    on 


o 

Pi 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN. 


265 


Falls,    TicoiKleioga    Village. 


lus  Wci)  lioni  Canada  to  the  Mohawk  country,  to 
perfect  a  ticatv  with  the  Indians.  He  arrived  in  a 
canoe  at  the  outlet  of  the  lake  on  the  eve  of  the 
festival  of  Coipus  Christi,  and  named  it  "  Lac  du 
Sacrement"  (Lake  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament).  But, 
in  1609,  nearly  forty  years  earlier,  Champlain  had 
heard  of  the  lake  from  the  Indians,  and,  in  ascending  that  lake  which  now  bears  his 
name,  with  a  party  of  friendly  Indians,  he  endeavored  to  reach  it;  but  a  battle 
occurred  at  Crown  Point  with  the  Algonquins,  which,  although  victorious  for  the 
Indian  allies  of  the  Frenchman,  frustrated  his  design. 

We  hear  of  the  lake  being  visited  by  various  scouting-parties,  and  forming  the  channel 
of  communication  between  the  Canadian  French  and  the  Indian  tribes  southward  ;  but  it 
was  not  until  the  French  War  of  1745  that  the  lake  came  into  conspicuous  notice.  It 
then  became  the  great  highway  between  the  North  and  places  southward  ;  armies  reached 

105 


266 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


its  borders  and  were  transported  over 
its  silvery  waters,  but  as  yet  no  con- 
test had  stained  it  with  blood.  In 
1755,  General  William  Johnson,  design- 
ing to  operate  against  the  French  at 
Crown  Point,  on  Lake  Champlain, 
reached  its  shores  with  a  small  army  ; 
and  this  zealous  captain,  with  the  view 
of  asserting  the  supremacy  of  his  sover- 
eign over  this  region,  ordered  that  it 
should  be  known  as  Lake  George,  a 
command  which  has  been  only  too  lit- 
erally obeyed.  While  here,  the  French 
General  Dieskau,  with  an  army  partly 
composed  of  Indians,  appeared  on  the 
scene.  Colonel  Williams,  with  twelve 
hundred  men,  was  dispatched  to  meet 
him.  A  battle  took  place  at  a  brook 
about  four  miles  east  of  the  lake.  Colo- 
nel Williams  was  drawn  into  an  am- 
bush ;  he  was  killed  at  an  early  part 
of  the  conflict,  and  the  command  de- 
volved on  Colonel  Whiting ;  a  retreat 
was  ordered  to  the  main  body  at  the 
lake  ;  Dieskau  followed,  and  another 
battle  ensued  at  the  place  where  now 
stand  the  ruins  of  Fort  George.  John- 
son had  thrown  up  a  slight  breastwork 
of  logs  ;  this  defence  enabled  him  to 
repel  the  attack  of  the  French,  who, 
after  five  hours'  fighting,  were  compelled 
to  retreat.  After  this  contest  a  fort 
was  thrown  up  near  the  spot,  and 
named  Fort  William  Henry,  in  honor 
of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  brother  to 
the  king,  the  site  of  which  is  now  oc- 
cupied by  the  hotel  of  the  same  name. 
After  this  event  we  hear  of  numerous 
minor     contests    on     the    lake    and    its 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN. 


267 


shores.  The  EngHsh  sent  scouting-parties 
and  troops  down  the  lake  ;  the  French 
sent  them  up  the  lake ;  and  hence  en- 
sued an  endless  number  of  collisions,  with 
not  a  few  romantic  incidents  pertaining 
thereto.  Among  these  contestants  was 
one  Israel  Putnam,  whose  later  career  in 
the  struggle  of  the  colonies  for  indepen- 
dence all  the  world  knows.  Two  years 
later,  in  1757,  occurred  a  momentous  con- 
test at  the  southern  boundary  of  the  lake. 
The  Earl  of  Loudon  was  in  command 
of  the  English  forces  in  North  America. 
He  was  planning  a  general  attack  upon 
the  Canadas.  Colonel  Munro  was  in 
command  at  Fort  William  Henry.  Sev- 
eral unsuccessful  attempts  had  been  made 
by  the  French  upon  the  fort  ;  but  now 
General  Montcalm,  the  French  command- 
er, determined  upon  a  concentrated  effort 
for  its  capture.  He  embarked  from 
Montreal  with  ten  thousand  French  and 
Indians.  Six  days  were  occupied  in  reach- 
ing Ticonderoga ;  then,  after  some  delay, 
the  main  body  of  the  army  were  trans- 
ferred to  Lake  George,  and  ascended  the 
lake  in  boats.  It  is  a  stirring  picture  that 
comes  up  before  the  imagination  —  this 
placid  sheet,  these  sylvan  shores,  all  astir 
with  the  "pomp  and  circumstance  of  war." 
All  was  in  preparation  for  defence  at  Fort 
William  Henry  and  Fort  George.  Fort 
William  Henry  is  described  as  a  square, 
flanked  by  four  bastions.  The  walls  were 
built  of  pine-trees,  covered  with  sand.  It 
mounted  nineteen  cannon  and  four  or 
five  mortars,  the  garrison  consisting  of 
five  hundred  men.  Seventeen  hundred 
men    occupied  a  fortified    position    on  the 


268 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Looking  south  from  Fort  Ticonderoga,   Lake  Champlain. 


site  of  the  ruins  of  Fort  George.  The 
siege  lasted  six  days,  but  the  courage 
of  the  Enghsh  soldiers  was  unavail- 
ing. They  were  compelled  to  surren- 
der, the  conditions  being  that  the  gar- 
rison and  the  troops  of  the  fortified 
camp  should  march  out  with  the  hon- 
ors of  war,  in  possession  of  their  arms  and  baggage  ;  but 
the  Indian  allies  were  uncontrollable,  and  a  horrible  massacre 
ensued.  This  bloody  incident  was  soon  followed  by  another  brilliant  spectacle.  In  July, 
1758,  sixteen  thousand  men  assembled,  at  the  head  of  the  lake,  under  General  Aber- 
crombie,  and.  in  a  fleet  of  one  thousand  boats,  descended  in  stately  procession  to  the 
northern  terminus,  with  the  purpose  of  attacking  Ticonderoga.  The  expedition  was 
unsuccessful.  But,  one  year  later.  General  Amherst,  with  about  an  equal  force,  traversed 
the  lake  on  a  similar,  and,  as  it  proved,  more  successful  expedition.  His  capture  of  the 
forts  on  Champlain  brought  peace  to  the  shores  of  Lake  George ;  but  afterward  in  the 
Revolution  it  became  the  centre  of  stirring  scenes  at  the  time  of  the  Burgoyne  invasion. 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN. 


269 


Ficondeioga   Landing. 

It  is  onl}^  four  miles  from  the 
steamboat  -  landing  on  Lake  George 
to  Ticonderoga,  on  Lake  Champlain, 
a  distance  traversed  by  Concord  coaches  in  connection  with  steamers  on  both  lakes. 
Fort  Ticonderoga  is  a  picturesque  ruin  —  one  of  the  few  historic  places  in  America 
that  is  untouched  by  the  hand  of  improvement  and  unchanged  by  the  renovations 
of  progress.  Its  crumbling  walls  are  full  of  history ;  few  places  in  America,  indeed, 
have  so  many  romantic  associations,  or  have  undergone  so  many  vicissitudes  of  war. 
It  was  built  in  1755  by  the  French,  who  had  already  occupied  and  fortified  Crown 
Point,  on  the  lake-shore,  some  ten  miles  northward.  The  French  called  it  Caril- 
lon (chime  of  bells),  so  named  in  allusion  to  the  music  of  the  water-falls  near  it. 
We  have  already  mentioned  General  Abercrombie's  attempt  to  capture  it  in  1758,  and 
Lord  Amherst's  more  successful  campaign  in  the  following  year.  The  French,  being 
unable  to  maintain  the  fort,  abandoned  and  dismantled  it  on  the  approach  of  the  Eng- 
Hsh  forces.  Soon  after.  Crown  Point  was  also  abandoned.  The  English  enlarged  and 
greatly  strengthened  the  two  fortifications,  expending  thereon  ten  million  dollars,  at  that 
time    an    immense    sum    for    such    a   purpose.     The    fort   and    field-works   of  Ticonderoga 


270 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


extended  over  an  area  of  several  miles.  After  the  cession  of  Canada,  in  1763,  the  fort 
was  allowed  to  fall  into  partial  decay.  At  the  breaking  out  of  the  Revolution,  in  1775, 
it  readily  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Americans,  under  the  eccentric  leader  Colonel 
Ethan  Allen.  In  1776  there  was  a  struggle,  before  the  walls  of  the  fort,  between 
British    and    Americans,    in    which    the    latter    were    compelled    to    take    refuge    under 


Lake   Champlain,  near   Whitehall. 

its  guns.  In  June,  1777,  General  Burgoyne  invested  it,  and,  July  4th,  having  gained 
possession  of  the  summit  of  Mount  Defiance,  which  commanded  the  fortifications,  com- 
pelled the  garrison  to  evacuate.  In  September  of  the  same  year,  the  Americans  en- 
deavored to  recapture  it.  General  Lincoln  attacked  the  works,  took  Mounts  Hope  and 
Defiance,  captured  many  gun-boats  and    stores,  but    failed    to    get    possession    of  the    fort 


Lake   Champlain,  near   Ticonderoga. 


itself     After  the  surrender  of  General  Burgoyne,  it    was    dismantled,  and  from  that   time 
was  suffered  to  fall  into  ruin  and  decay. 

Mr.  Fenn  has  given  us  several  interesting  drawings  of  this  relic,  showing,  at  the 
same  time,  the  beauty  and  character  of  the  surrounding  shores.  There  is  one  picture 
that  vividly  recalls  a  verse  from   Browning  : 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN. 


271 


"  Where  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening  smiles 

Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pasture  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  through  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop — 
Was  the  site  of  a  city  great  and  gay, 

(So  they  say)." 

But  all  artists  delight  in  bringing   these   suggestions  of   peace    in   contrast  with  the  asso- 
ciations of  strife. 

We  are  now  on  Lake  Champlain.     There  is    a  very  striking  difference  in  the  shores 


Crown    Point   and   Port   Henry,  Lake   Champlain. 


of  the  two  lakes.  On  Lake  George  the  mountains  come  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
waters,  which  lie  embowered  in  an  amphitheatre  of  cliffs  and  hills  ;  but  on  Lake  Cham- 
plain there  are  mountain-ranges  stretching  in  parallel  lines  far  away  to  the  right  and 
left,  leaving,  between  them  and  the  lake,  wide  areas  of  charming  champaign  country, 
smiling  with  fields  and  orchards  and  nestling  farm-houses.  There  are  on  Lake  Champlain 
noble  panoramas  ;.  one  is  charmed  with  the  shut-in  sylvan  beauties  of  Lake  George  ;  but 
the  wide  expanses  of  Lake  Champlain  are,  while  different  in  character,  as  essentially 
beautiful. 

It  is  in  every  way  a  noble  lake.     Ontario    is    too    large — a   very  sea  ;    Lake    George 
is    perhaps    too    petty   and  confined  ;    but  Champlain   is   not    so   large   as   to    lose,  for  the 


272 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


J3 
U 


voyager  upon  its  waters,  views  of 
either  shore,  nor  so  small  as  to 
contract  and  limit  the  prospect. 
The  length  is  one  hundred  and 
twenty  -  six  miles,  its  width  never 
more  than  thirteen  miles.  The 
traveller  who  reaches  it  at  Ticon- 
deroga  from  Lake  George  loses  a 
view  of  the  extreme  southern  por- 
tion ;  but  this  is  scarcely  a  matter 
for  regret.  The  head  of  the  lake 
is  narrow,  and,  at  Whitehall,  the 
shores  are  mamly  low  and  swampy. 
North  of  Ticonderoga  the  lake  be- 
gins to  widen,  and,  at  Burlington 
Bay,  expands  into  a  very  sea.  The 
first  point  of  interest  above  Ticon- 
deroga is  Crown  Point,  the  history 
of  which  is  closely  identified  with 
that  of  Fort  Ticonderoga.  The 
steamer  makes  several  stopping- 
places  ;  but  the  villages,  while  at- 
tractive-looking, have  no  claims  to 
the  picturesque.  Some  miles  below 
Burlington,  a  spur  of  the  Adiron- 
dacks  stretches  down  to  the  shore, 
forming  the  only  steep  cliffs  directly 
on  the  border  of  the  lake.  These 
cliffs  extend  for  several  miles,  and 
terminate  in  a  point  of  land  known 
as  Split  Rock,  where  a  portion  of 
the  rock  is  isolated  by  a  remark- 
able fissure,  and  converted  into  an 
island.  From  this  point  opens  a 
broad  expanse  of  water  stretching 
for  sixty  miles.  There  is  almost 
always  a  wind  upon  this  sea  of 
waters,  and  at  times  the  blasts  that 
come     sweeping     down     from     the 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE    CHAMPLALN. 


273 


north  are  full  of  vigor.  There  are  occasions 
when  the  waves  come  tumbling  upon  Split 
Rock  like  an  ocean-surf;  so  fiercely,  indeed, 
do  the  seas  assail  the  spot,  that,  in  many  a 
winter  storm,  the  spray  is  dashed  over  the 
tall  light-house,  where  it  enshrouds  the  round 
walls  in  a  robe  of  ice.  Even  on  a  calm 
summer's  day  the  traveller  discovers  a  differ- 
ence as  he  enters  this  spacious  area,  for  the 
placid  sweetness  of  the  lake-surface  has  given 
place  to  a  robust  energy  of  motion,  and  a 
certain  brilliant  crispness  replaces  the  mirror- 
like calm  of  the  lower  portion.  Here,  too, 
the  distant  mountain-views  are  superb.  The 
Green  Mountains,  on  one  side,  purple  in  the 
hazy  distance  ;  the  Adirondack  Hills,  on  the 
other,  mingle  their  blue  tops  with  the  clouds. 
One  may  study  the  outlines  of  Mansfield 
and  Camel's  Hump,  the  highest  of  the 
famous  hills  of  Vermont,  and  search  for 
Whiteface  amid  the  towering  peaks  of  the 
Adirondacks.  At  Burlington  Bay  the  lake 
is  very  wide,  numerous  islands  break  its  sur- 
face, and  the  distant  Adirondack  Hills  at 
this  point  attain  their  highest.  From  Bur- 
lington to  Plattsburg  (one  hundred  miles 
from  Whitehall)  the  shores  are  of  varying 
interest,  similar  in  general  character  to  those 
below.  At  Plattsburg  the  lake  has  its 
widest  reach,  but  a  long  island  breaks  the 
expanse  nearly  midway  between  the  two 
shores.  St.  Albans  is  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  the  lake,  near  the  northern  boundary  of 
Vermont.  Between  Plattsburg  and  this 
place  Mr.  Fenn  has  grouped  a  succession  of 
views  which  tell  their  own  story  with  suf- 
ficient fulness.  Rouse's  Point,  twenty  miles 
from  Plattsburg,  is  at  the  extreme  boundary 
of   a   western    fork    of   the    lake,   situated   in 


b/) 
C 


106 


LAKE     CHAMPLAIN,     FROM     PLATTSBURG      TO     ST.     ALBANS. 


LAKE    GEORGE    AND    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN.  275 

Canada,  on  the  border-line  between  the  two  countries.  From  this  point  the  waters  of 
the  lake  flow  into  the  St.  Lawrence  by  a  narrow  stream  known  as  Sorel  or  Richelieu 
River. 

Champlain,  like  Lake  George,  has  a  romantic  and  stirring  history.  It  w^as  discov- 
ered in  1609-  by  Samuel  de  Champlain,  commander  of  the  infant  colony  of  the  French 
at  Quebec.  He  had  left  the  colony  with  a  small  number  of  Indians,  who  were  pro- 
ceeding to  give  battle  to  a  hostile  gathering  of  the  Algonquins.  He  was  accompanied 
by  only  two  French  companions.  Making  a  portage  at  the  Chambly  Rapids,  the  party 
reembarked,  and  soon  emerged  upon  the  great  lake,  which,  if  our  records  are  correct, 
then,  for  the  first  time  in  the  long  ages,  knew  the  presence  of  the  white  man.  The 
French  officer  promptly  named  it  after  himself — a  vanity  we  shall  not  complain  of,  inas- 
much as  the  designation  is  simple,  euphonious,  and  dignified.  On  this  expedition  Cham- 
plain reached  a  point  between  the  later  fortifications  of  Crown  Point  and  Ticonderoga, 
where  ensued  a  contest  between  the  Iroquois  and  Algonquin  Indians,  which  speedily  re- 
sulted in  victory  for  the  former.  The  discovery  of  this  superb  inland  sea  led  the  French 
to  ambitiously  plan  a  great  state  upon  its  shores.  At  Crown  Point  they  built  a  fort  called 
Fort  Frederic,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  an  extensive  settlement,  under  the  expecta- 
tion of  making  this  place  the  capital  of  the  new  empire.  Twenty  years  later  the  fort  at 
Ticonderoga  was  built.  But,  in  1759,  ^^  we  have  seen  in  our  brief  history  of  Ticonde- 
roga, the  power  of  the  French  on  the  lake  was  overthrown,  and  their  magnificent  pro- 
jects vanished  into  air.  During  the  Revolution,  the  lake  saw  but  little  fighting  after 
the  fall  of  Ticonderoga  and  Crown  Point  ;  but,  in  18 14,  it  was  the  scene  of  a  naval 
battle  of  no  little  magnitude,  in  which  the  American  Commodore  Macdonough  defeated 
the  English  Commodore  Downie.  The  contest  took  place  at  Plattsburg,  on  Sunday 
morning,  September  nth.  The  American  fleet  consisted  of  fourteen  vessels,  eighty-six 
guns,  and  eight  hundred  and  eighty  men;  while  the  English  force  numbered  sixteen  ves- 
sels, ninety-five  guns,  and  one  thousand  men.  It  is  stated  that,  before  going  into  the 
fight.  Commodore  Macdonough  assembled  his  officers  and  crew  on  the  deck  of  the  flag- 
ship Saratoga,  and  solemnly  implored  Divine  protection  in  the  approaching  conflict.  The 
result  of  the  battle  was  the  surrender  of  the  entire  British  fleet,  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  small  gun-boats.  Commodore  Downie  was  killed.  While  this  struggle  was  going  on 
upon  the  lake,  a  body  of  fourteen  thousand  men  on  land,  under  General  Provost,  were 
attacking  an  American  force,  at  Plattsburg,  of  inferior  numbers,  under  General  Macomb  ; 
and  this  contest  also  resulted  in  victory  for  the  Americans. 

From  that  day  to  the  present  hour  the  lake  and  its  shores  have  known  unbroken 
serenity.  Fleets  of  vessels  have  traversed  its  waters,  but  they  have  been  on  peaceful 
errands.  Vast  armies  have  sailed  up  and  down  its  channels,  invaded  its  towns,  pene- 
trated the  forests  and  assaulted  the  mountains  that  surround  it,  but  they  have  been 
armies  of  pleasure-seekers. 


MOUNT    MANSFIELD. 


WITH      ILLUSTRATIONS      BY      HARRY      FENN. 


ERMONT  is,  and 
perhaps   ever   will 
be,  the  most  purely  ru- 
ral of  all  the  older  States.     Though  bordered  by 
Lake    Champlain,  and    pretty  well  supplied  with 
railways,  she  seems  to   be    aside    from    any  great 
thoroughfare,  and   to    hold    her   greenness   nearly 
unsoiled    by  the  dust  of  travel  and  traffic.      Be- 
tween   the    unyielding    granite    masses    of   the    White- Mountain 
range    on    the    one  side,  and  the  Adirondack  Wilderness   on   the 
other,  lies    this    happy  valley  of  simple    contentment,  with    its    mellower  soil    and   gentler 
water-courses,  its  thriftier    farmers    and    more    numerous  herds,  its  marble-ledges,  its  fertile 
uplands,  and  its  own  mountains  of  gentler  slope  and  softened  outline. 

Nearly  through  the  middle  runs  the  Green-Mountain  range,  giving  rise  to  a  thou- 
sand murmuring  rivulets  and  modest  rivers,  that  lapse  down  through  green-browed  hills 
and    crumbling  limestone-cliffs  and  sunny  meadow-lands,  now  turned    quickly  by  a  mossy 


MOUNT   MANSFIELD. 


277 


ledge,  and  now  skirting  a  bit  of  native  forest,  until  they  lose  them- 
selves on  the  one  side  in  the  deep-channelled  Connecticut,  or  on 
the  other  in  the  historic  waters  of  Lake  Champlain. 
Quiet  industry,  pastoral  contentment,  out-door  lux- 
ury, and  in-door  comfort — these  are  the  characteris- 
tics that  continually  suggest  themselves  to  the  visitor, 
wherever  he  loiters  among  the  valley-farms  or  pleas- 
ant villages  of  the  Gieen-Mountain  State.  It  im- 
presses him  as  a  land  where  wealth  will  seldom  ac- 
cumulate, and  men  should  never  decay — whose  dwell- 


The  Old  Woman  of  the  Mountain. 


ers  may  forever  praise  God  for  the 
greenness  of  the  hills,  the  fertility  of  the 
soil,  the  purity  of  the  streams,  the  delicious  atmosphere, 
and  the  mellow  sunshine — where  the  earth  extends  such  a  genial  invitation  to  labor 
that  all  must  be  allies,  striving  together  for  a  living  out  of  the  ground,  and  none  need 
be  enemies,  scheming  to  get  it  out  of  each  other. 

When    Jacques    Cartier,    a    third    of    a    millennium    ago,    descried    these    peaks    from 


2  78 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Corduroy-Bridge,    Mount- 
Mansfield    Road. 


Mount     Royal,    by    the     St.    Law- 
rence,    he     looked     upon     a     land 
whose  history  was  yet  to  be,  where 
we    look    upon    one  whose    history, 
in  the  romantic   sense   of  the  term, 
is    probably    closed.        For    nicely- 
worded    statutes    and    accurate    sur- 
veyors' lines    have    taken    the    place 
of  vague  royal  patents,  bounded  by 
unknown    rivers ;    and    the    conten- 
tion   between  New  Hampshire  and 
New  York,  that  kept  Vermont  out 
of  the    Union    during    the   Revolu- 
tion, can  have  no  repetition  or  par- 
allel.    There  was  one  Bennington — 
there    need  be  no  more  ;    there  was 
one  Ethan  Allen — there    can    never 
be    another.      But,  though  the  days 
of  colonial  jealousies  and  rebellious 
warfare    are     over,    and    this    quiet 
people     are     counting    their     cattle 
and    weighing    their    butter  -  firkins 
where    their    grandsires    shouldered    their   muskets 
and    lighted    beacon-fires,    the    glory    of    manhood 
has    not    departed    with    the    romance    of   frontier- 
life.      It    was    the    sons    of   the    men   who    carried 
Ticonderoga    and    Crown     Point   who    annihilated 
Lee's     forlorn    hope    at    Gettysburg,    turning    the 
battle    that    turned    the    civil    war.      Vermont,  too, 
may  have  a  history  of  literature   and   art,  which  is 
but  just    begun.      Here    lies   the   marble-quarry  of 
America,  and    here    sprung   America's    earliest    and 
best-known    sculptor.      One    of   her  most  famous    journalists  here 
spent  his  boyhood,  learning  the  use  of  pen    and    type  ;   and  here, 
also,  his    aptest    pupil  was    reared.      And,  for  the  extremes  of  lit- 
erature, one    of  our  earliest  humorists,  and  one  of  our  most  cele- 
brated philologists,  were  born  in  these  same  verdurous  valleys. 

If   Professor    Rogers's   theory  of  mountain-formation    be    cor- 
rect— that    elevated  ranges  have  been  produced  by  a  sort  of  tidal 


MOUNT   MANSFIELD. 


279 


wave  of  the  earth's  once  plastic  crust — then  the  Green  Mountains  must  be  the  softened 
undulation  that  followed  the  greater  billow  which  crested  and  broke  in  Mount  Wash- 
ington and  Mount  Lafayette,  leaving  its  form  forever  fixed  in  the  abrupt  and  rugged 
declivities  of  the  White  Hills  and  the  Franconia  group.  The  Green  Mountains  form  the 
northern  portion  of  what  is  known  as  the  Appalachian  Chain.  Their  wooded  sides  ob- 
tained for  them  from  the  early 
French  settlers  the  term  Monts 
Verts,  and  from  this  phrase  is 
derived  the  name  of  the  State 
in  which  they  are  situated.  The 
continuation  of  the  range  through 
Massachusetts  and  Connecticut  is 
also  known  to  geographers  as 
the  Green  Mountains,  but  by 
the  inhabitants  of  those  States 
other  names  are  applied  to  them 
— as  the  Hoosac  Mountains,  in 
Massachusetts,  for  that  portion 
lying  near  the  Connecticut  Riv- 
er, and  constituting  the  most  ele- 
vated portion  of  the  State  be- 
tween this  river  and  the  Housa- 
tonic ;  and  the  Taconic  Moun- 
tains for  the  western  part  of  the 
range,  which  lies  along  the  New- 
York  line.  These  ranges  extend 
into  Vermont  near  the  southwest 
corner  of  the  State,  and  join  in 
a  continuous  line  of  hills  that 
pass  through  the  western  portion 
of  the  State  nearly  to  Mont- 
pelier.  Without  attaining  very 
great    elevation,  these    hills   form 

an  unbroken  water-shed  between  the  affluents  of  the  Connecticut  on  the  east,  and  the 
Hudson  and  Lake  Champlain  on  the  west,  and  about  equidistant  between  them.  South 
from  Montpelier  two  ranges  extend — one  toward  the  northeast,  nearly  parallel  with  the 
Connecticut  River,  dividing  the  waters  flowing  east  from  those  flowing  west ;  and  the 
other,  which  is  the  higher  and  more  broken,  extending  nearly  north,  and  near  Lake 
Champlain.      Through  this  range  the  Onion,  Lamoille,  and  Winooski    Rivers  make  their 


View  from   Mountain-Road. 


28o  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

way  toward  the  lake.  Among  the  principal  peaks  are  Mount  Mansfield,  Camel's  Hump, 
both  situated  near  Burlington  ;  Killington's,  near  Rutland ;  and  Ascutney,  in  Windsor 
County,  near  the  Connecticut,  and  which  has  been  illustrated  in  our  article  on  the  Con- 
necticut River. 

Mount  Mansfield,  the  highest  of  the  Green-Mountain  range,  is  situated  near  the 
northern  extremity,  about  twenty  miles,  in  a  direct  line  east,  or  a  little  north  of  east, 
from  Burlington,  on  Lake  Champlaiij.  This  mountain  has  been  less  popular  among 
tourists  and  pleasure-seekers  than  the  White  Mountains  and  the  Catskills,  principally 
because  its  attractions  have  been  little  known.  The  pencil  of  Gifford  has  made  it  familiar 
to  art-lovers ;  but  literature  has  so  far  done  little  toward  making  its  peaks,  cliffs,  and 
ravines,  known  to  the  general  public.  That  it  possesses  points  of  interest  and  picturesque 
features  quite  as  worthy  the  appreciation  of  lovers  of  Nature  as  the  White  Mountains 
or  the  Catskills  do,  Mr.  Fenn's  illustrations  fully  show.  Of  recent  years,  it  has  been  more 
visited  than  formerly ;  and  a  good  hotel  at  Stowe,  five  miles  from  its  base,  has  now  every 
summer  its  throng  of  tourists.  There  is  also  a  Summit  House,  situated  at  the  base  of 
the  highest  peak  known  as  the  Nose,  where  travellers  may  find  plain  but  suitable 
accommodation  if  they  wish  to  prolong  their  stay  on  the  mountain-top  overnight.  Mans- 
field is  conveniently  reached  by  rail  from  Burlington  to  Waterbury  Station,  on  the  Ver- 
mont Central  Railway ;  and  thence  by  Concord  coaches  ten  miles  to  Stowe.  From 
Stowe  a  carriage-road  reaches  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain. 

As  in  the  case  of  nearly  all  mountains,  there  is  some  difference  in  the  various  esti- 
mates of  the  height  of  Mansfield,  the  most  generally  accepted  statement  being  four  thou- 
sand three  hundred  and  forty-eight  feet — a  few  hundred  feet  in  excess  of  the  highest  of 
the  Catskills.  Popularly,  the  summit  of  Mansfield  is  likened  to  the  up-turned  face  of  a 
giant,  showing  the  Nose,  the  Chin,  and  the  Lip.  It  is  not  difficult,  with  a  little  aid  of 
the  imagination,  to  trace  this  profile  as  the  mountain  is  viewed  from  Stowe.  The  Nose, 
so  called,  has  a  projection  of  four  hundred  feet,  and  the  Chin  all  the  decision  of  character 
indicated  by  a  forward  thrust  of  eight  hundred  feet.  The  distance  from  Nose  to  Chin 
is  a  mile  and  a  half.  The  Nostril  is  discovered  in  a  perpendicular  wall  of  rock.  This 
mountain  is,  moreover,  not  without  the  usual  number  of  faces  and  resemblances  to  famil- 
iar objects,  among  the  most  notable  of  which  is  that  described  as  the  "  Old  Woman  of 
the  Mountain,"  represented  in  one  of  our  engravings.  She  leans  back  in  her  easy-chair, 
and  her  work  has  fallen  into  her  lap,  while  she  gazes  out,  in  dreamy  meditation,  across 
the  misty  valley. 

The  ascent  of  the  mountain  is  not  difficult,  which  the  hardy  pedestrian  would  be 
wise  to  attempt  on  foot.  Carriages  from  Stowe  make  the  journey  at  regular  periods. 
The  ride  up  the  steep  road-way  is  full  of  interest,  the  changing  views  affording  momen- 
tarily new  and  beautiful  pictures.  The  mountain,  until  near  the  summit,  is  very  heavily 
timbered ;   and   the   glimpses    downward,  through    entanglements    of  trees    into    the    deep 


MOUNT   MANSFIELD. 


2»I 


ravines,  are  full  of  superb  beauty.  Neighboring  peaks  continually  change  their  positions ; 
lesser  ones  are  no  longer  obscured  by  their  taller  brothers ;  while  successive  ravines  yawn 
beneath  us.      Now  the  road  passes  over  a  terraced  solid  rock,  and  now  it   jolts   over  the 


Glimpse   of  Lake   Champlain,   from   Summit. 


crazy  scaffolding  of  a  corduroy-bridge  that  spans  a  chasm  in  the  mountain-side  ;  soon  the 
forest-growths  begin  to  thin  out  perceptibly;  and  at  last  we  reach  the  Summit  House, 
amid  masses  of  bare  rocks,  at  the  foot  of  the  huge  cliff  known  as  the  Nose. 


107 


282 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


The  path  up 
the  Nose,  on  its 
western  side,  is 
quite  as  rugged  as 
the  ordinary  chmb- 
er  will  wish ;  but^ 
with  the  help  of 
the  cable,  its  ascent  may 
be  accomplished.  The 
view  from  the  top  is  one 
of  the  finest  in  our  coun- 
try. To  the  eastward  are 
the  White  Mountains, 
dwindled  by  distance. 
The  isolated  and  symmet- 
rical form  of  Ascutney 
rises  on  the  southeast.  Southward  are 
Camel's  Hump  and  Killington  Peak,  and 
innumerable  smaller  elevations  of  the 
Green-Mountain  range — respectable  and  re- 
spected in  their  own  townships,  doubtless,  but  here  losing  much  of  their  individual 
importance,  like  monstrosities  at  a  fair.  Westward  lies  a  considerable  expanse  of  low- 
land, with  many  sparkling  streams  winding  about  among  the  farms  and  forests  and 
villages,  the  city  of  Burlington  in  the  distance,  and  beyond  them  the  beautiful  expanse 
of  Lake  Champlain,  with  the  blue  ridges  of  the  Adirondacks  serrating  the  farthest  hori- 
zon. On  the  northwest  is  the  Lamoille  Valley,  watered  by  the  Lamoille  and  Winooski 
Rivers,  that    tumble    through    the  depressions  of   the  outliers,  and  dream  their  way  across 


Cave   under   Lower   Lip. 


MOUNT   MANSFIELD. 


283 


the  plain.  And  far  northward 
are  Jay  Peak  and  Owl's  Head, 
the  stately  St.  Lawrence,  the 
spires  of  Montreal,  a  score  of 
•  nameless  mountains,  and  Lake 
Memphremagog,  familiar  to  many 
readers  by  the  means  of  Whit- 
tier's  pleasing  verse.  The  diffi- 
culty,   however,    with    all    views 

from  mountain-tops  is,  to  find  an  occasion  when  the 
atmosphere  is  sufficiently  clear  to  take  in  the  pros- 
pect. Mr.  Fenn  was  three  days  on  the  summit  of 
Mansfield,  during  all  which  time  a  dense,  gray  vapor 
enveloped  all  the  facial  features  of  that  grand  pro- 
file, and  veiled  the  surrounding  scene  as  completely 
as  the  curtain  at  the  play  shuts  from  view  the  splen- 
dors behind  it.  At  last,  the  misty  •  veil  lifted  a 
little;  and  we  have  as  a  result,  in  one  of  the  illus- 
trations, a  glimpse,  through  this  parting  vapor,  of 
Lake  Champlain  and  the  distant  Adirondacks.  An- 
other   view    shows    us    the    mountain  -  cliffs    looming 


Climbing  the   Nose. 


284 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


i4,lk% 


through  the  mist,  affording  a  glimpse  of 
what  is  known  as  Smuggler's  Notch,  one 
of  the  most  interesting  featuies  of  this 
mountain.  In  the  far  West  this  notch 
would  be  called  a  canon.  It  diffeis  fiom 
the  canons  of  the  Sierras  mainly  in  being 
more  picturesque  and  beautiful  —  not 
I  so  ruggedly  giand  -as    those    rocky 


Smuggler's   Notch. 


MOUNT   MANSFIELD. 


285 


walls,  it  must  be  understood,  but  the  abundant  moisture  has  filled  it  with  superb  forest- 
growths,  has  covered  all  the  rocks  with  ferns  and  lichens,  has  painted  the  stone  with 
delicious  tints.     The  sides  of  the  Notch  rise  to  an  altitude   of  about  a  thousand  feet,  the 


Rocks   in    Smuggler's   Notch. 


upper  verge  of  the  cliffs  rising  above  the  fringe  of  mountain-trees  that  cling  to  their 
sides.  The  floor  of  the  Notch  is  covered  with  immense  bowlders  and  fallen  masses  of 
rocks,  which  in  this  half-lighted  vault  have  partly  crumbled,  and  given  foothold  for  vege- 


LOOKING    TOWARD    SMUGGLER'S     NOTCH,     FROM     THE     NOSE. 


MOUNT   MANSFIELD. 


287 


tation.  Mosses  and  ferns  cover 
them,  and  in  many  instances  great 
trees  have  found  nourishment  in 
the  crevices,  some4;imes  huge,  gnarl- 
ed roots  encircHng  the  rocks  hke 
immense  anacondas.  The  painter 
could  find  no  more  delightful  stud- 
ies in  color  than  this  scene  affords. 
At  the  time  visited  by  the  artist 
and  the  writer,  there  had  been  a 
three  days'  rain.  The  stream  that 
flowed  through  the  gorge  was  swol- 
len into  a  torrent.  Over  the  top 
of  every  cliff  came  pouring  extem- 
porized water  -  falls  and  cascades, 
while  the  foliage,  of  fairly  tropical 
abundance,  shone  with  a  brilliant 
intensity  of  green.  Smuggler's 
Notch  has  a  hundred  poetical 
charms  that  deserve  for  it  a  better 
name.  It  is  so  called  because  once 
used  as  a  hiding-place  for  goods 
smuggled  over  the  Canada  bor- 
der. 

Another  very  charming  picture 
in  this  Mansfield  gallery  is  Moss- 
Glen  Cascade,  a  water -fall  that 
comes  tumbling  down,  in  successive 
leaps,  through  a  narrow  gorge.  The 
pipe,  or  flume,  supported  by  the 
rude  ladders  on  the  right,  conveys 
a  portion  of  the  water  to  the 
wheel  of  a  saw-mill.  It  seems  like 
an  impertinence  to  introduce  any 
mechanical  coHtrivance  into  so  ex- 
quisitely wild  a  bit  of  scenery  as 
this;  for  the  brook  is  emphatically 
"a  gushing  child  of  Nature,"  not 
intended  for  homely  usefulness. 


Moss-Glen   Cascade. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE     HOUSATONIC 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY   J.    DOUGLAS    WOODWARD. 


THERE    are    few   New- 
England  rivers  of  any 


considerable  length  which  do  not  present,  in 
the  range  of  their  flow,  not  only  a  great  va- 
riety, but  also  a  striking  contrast,  of  aspects 
Rising  ordinarily  in  the  hills  as  sparkling  riv- 
ulets, they  dance  and  chatter,  or  foam  and  fret, 
into  the  valleys,  slowly  gaining  sobriety  of  mo- 
tion with  the  rapid  growth  of  their  bulk,  which  they  roll,  at  length,  with  imposing  ampli- 
tude and  becoming  dignity,  into  broader  waters,  or  into  the  arms  of  the  all-embracing  sea. 


fffflOT 


<f 


S^pM 


'\(M 


.1 


ill  llJil 


^ 

^ 

K^ 


THE     VALLEY    OF    THE    HOUSA  TONIC. 


289 


The  Housatonic  River  is  no  exception  to  this  rule.  It  springs  in  the  beautiful 
Berkshire  region  of  Massachusetts,  where  its  first  ripples  reflect  the  crests  of  grand  hills ; 
and,  after  flowing  for  a  century  of  happy  miles  amid  scenes  that  do  not  suffer  it  to 
quite  forget  its  mountain-cradled  laughter,  it  glides  gravely  enough  through  the  plains  of 
old  Stratford,  on  the  Connecticut  shore,  and  is  lost  thereafter  in  the  expanse  of  Long- 
Island  Sound. 

The  journey  along  the  valley  of  the  Housatonic,  and  beyond  it  to  that  of  the  Hoosic, 


The  Housatonic  at  Derby. 


upon  which  the  reader  of  this  sketch  should  imagine  himself  to  accompany  us,  may  be 
fitly  symbolized  to  him  by  the  mid-October  day  with  whose  faint,  early  light  it  was 
begun.  The  gray,  misty  gleams  of  the  young  morning  harmonized  well  with  the  broad, 
pale  shimmering  of  the  river  that  was  merging — consciously,  it  may  be — its  individuality 
into    the  wide  waste    of   waters    beyond    it.      There    was    beauty  enough,  however,  in    the 

108 


290 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Housatonic  Valley,  near  Kent  Plains. 

pink  dappling  of  the  sky,  tinge- 

ing    the    clouds,  the   quiet  river 

and    bay    alike,    with    Aurora's 

first  glad  smile  ;  in  the  gentle  swell  of  the  green  land, 

dotted   over   with    white    homes  ;    in   the    flush    of  the 

wooded  .slopes,  where   the    maples  were    mocking    the 

eastern  horizon  with    the    faintly-kindling   splendor   of 

their    ripened    leaves — there  was  charm   enough    in    all 

this  to  give  pause  to  impatient  feet,  until  the  Sun  had  rent  the  veils  of  mist  and  cloud, 

and  poured  from  his  golden   chalice  a  partial  glory  upon   the  scene    chosen    by  our  artist 

for  the  frontispiece  of  this  sketch. 

The    change    from    quietness    to'   romance    in    the    aspects  of  the   Housatonic  Valley, 


THE     VALLEY    OF    THE    HOUSATONIC. 


291 


Old    Furnace,    at   Kent    Plains. 


from  its  broad  mouth  upward  toward  the  hills,  if  less  rapid  than  that  of  the  cool,  gray 
dawn  into  the  warm  and  shadowless  beauty  of  the  day,  was  still  not  less  real  ;  and  our 
advance,  helped  at  one  point  by  the  swift  progress  of  the  railway-train,  brought  us  ere 
long  into  a  region  where  such  speed,  amid  the  surrounding  loveliness,  would  have  been 
an  impertinence,  if  not,  indeed,  a  penalty. 


292 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Housatonic  Falls,  Falls  Village. 

That    biief    passage    on    the 
railway      will      be      quite      long 
enough  for  the  recital   of  a  few  initialjacts  of 
interest    to    the    leader.      The    beauties    of    the 
Housatonic   Valley  were  little    known,  and  still 
less  pictured,  before  the  opening  of  the  Housatonic 
Railway,  which   connects  the   sea-coast  of   Connecti- 
cut with  the  mountains  of  Massachusetts.     That  railway, 
beginning    at    the    handsome    and   thrifty  city  of   Biidge- 
^'  '    -•  port,   enters   the    valley    of   the    Housatonic    only    above 

Brookfield.  Thence  it  traverses  the  valley  closely  through  nearly  all  its  remaining  ex- 
tent ;  and  there  are  few  stations  beyond  at  which  the  tourist  might  not  tarry,  and,  with 
brief  excursions    to    the    right    or    left,  fill  his  eye  with  the  charms   of  mountain-outlines, 


\w 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    HOUSA  TONIC.  293 

valley-reaches,  crystal  lakes,  and  silvery  water-falls.  There  is,  therefore,  quite  a  long  in- 
terval of  the  valley  of  the  Housatonic  which  the  tourist  cannot,  if  he  would,  follow  by 
the  railway.  He  may,  however,  pursue  it,  for  its  first  half-score  of  miles,  from  Strat- 
ford, on  the  rails  of  the  Naugatuck  road ;  and  this  will  afford  him  pleasing  glimpses 
of  the  river  where  it  is  joined  by  the  noisy  Naugatuck,  and  where  the  busy  manufactur- 
ing interests  of  such  villages  as  Derby  and  Birmingham  subsidize  and  utilize  the  water- 
power  of  the  streams,  with   little   regard  to   picturesqueness  of  appliance  or  effect. 

Of  the  bridges  that  span  the  rivers  here,  one,  at 'least,  is  pretty  enough  to  have 
taken  the  eye  of  our  artist  ;  and,  with  the  accessories  of  fine  old  elms,  and  the  placid, 
mirror-like  face  of  the  stream,   it  can   hardly   fail  to   renew  its  fascination   on  the  page. 

From  Derby  to  New  Milford  the  river  is  unterrified  in  its  course  by  the  shrill 
whistle  and  the  crashing  roll  of  the  locomotive.  There  is  too  little,  perhaps,  of  the  ro- 
mantic in  this  twenty-mile  interval  to  tempt  any  one  but  the  determined  pedestrian  to 
follow  the  banks  of  the  stream. 

An  aside,  by  way  of  Stratford  again,  and  of  Bridgeport,  will  speedily  overpass  all 
the  initial  tameness  of  the  merely  undulating  region  near  the  coast,  and  bring  into  view 
the  swelling  symptoms  of  those  hills  which  are  soon  to  overhang — now  with  gloom,  and 
anon  with  purple  glow — the  silvery  lapses  of  the   Housatonic. 

If  this  sketch  were  not  shut  up  to  narrow  limits,  but  diffusiveness  were  allowed, 
the"  question  of  the  origin  and  meaning  of  the  name  "Housatonic"  might  be  discussed. 
There  was  the  usual  variety  of  orthographic  variations  in  it  before  it  reached  its  present 
easy  and  euphonious  form,  which  is  a  grateful  refinement,  probably,  of  the  aboriginal 
title  by  which  the  Indians  designated  it.  Its  signification  is  "  Flowing  (or  Winding) 
Waters ; "  and  it  is  therefore  no  misnomer.  There  is  the  authority  of  one  antiquarian 
for  a  primitive  name  of  the  river,  of  which  the  present  appellation  gives  not  the  faintest 
prevision.  The  old  Stratford  records,  we  are  told,  make  it  the  "  Paugusset ; "  and  we  are 
quite  content  to  have  this  name  as  mythical  as  it  is  remote. 

This  brief  digression,  historical  and  otherwise,  has  taken  less  of  our  time  than  the 
train  requires  from  Bridgeport  to  New  Milford.  And  now  the  railway  tourist  must  use 
his  eyes  diligently  to  catch  a  tithe  of  the  picturesque  shapes  which  will  pass  before  them 
as  he  is  whirled — all  too  swiftly — along  the  west  bank  of  the  lovely  river.  He  must  be 
satisfied  with  glimpses  only.  The  western  hills,  which  will  soon  be  mountains,  shift  rap- 
idly their  wavy  outlines ;  and  the  autumnal  hues  of  their  thick  forest-growth,  which  are 
fast  deepening  in  tone,  flash  on  his  sight  with  weird  effects.  All  the  scene  is,  to  him, 
simply  kaleidoscopic — hill  and  vale,  river  and  rustic  bridges,  white  farm-houses  and  red 
barns,  mingling  together  to  surprise  rather  than  really  to  satisfy  the  eye,  which  yet  de- 
clines to  linger  on  the  attractive  scene. 

At  Kent  Plains  the  valley  opens  with  such  charming  aspects  as  to  well  repay  the 
patient  tourist  for  his  pause,  even  if  it  is  brief      He  will    find    it  worth  while   to    do    a 


294 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


little  climbing,  if  it  is  only  to  obtain  a  clear  idea  of  the  shape  and  scope  of  the  noble 
valley  he  is  traversing,  girt  closely  on  the  west  by  almost  abrupt  hill-sides,  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  spreading  out  into   sweet  pastoral  reaches  and  green  undulations. 

His  ''little   climbing"  will  not  avail,  however,  to  lift  him  to  the   level   of   the    Spec- 
tacle   Ponds,  which    are    two    very    unique,  but    quite    elevated,  oval    lakelets,   fringed    by 


Old    Bridge,    Blackberry    River,    near    Canaan. 

dense  woods,  and  connected  by  a  slender  water-belt,  or  strait.  These  lie  west  of  the 
river,  and  are  on  the  way  to  a  fine  hill-top,  which  commands  distant  and  beautiful  views 
across  the  Hudson. 

The  old  furnace  which  the  artist  has  so  faithfully  reproduced  with  his  pencil  will 
suggest  to  the  mind  one  of  the  industries  of  the  Housatonic  Valley — the  working  of 
the  iron  which  is  found  in  many  localities. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    HO  USA  TONIC.  295 

It  would  be  doing  less  than  justice  to  happy  historic  memories  not  to  recall,  at 
Kent,  the  story  of  the  Schaghticoke  Indians,  among  whom,  long  ago,  the  Moravians 
founded*  a  mission,  and  of  whom  there  are  yet  to  be  found  descendants  of  a  mongrel 
order,  their  aboriginal  nature  and  habits  strangely  mingled  and  overlaid  with  the  externals 
of  civilization. 

A  day  or  two  would  be  well  spent  between  Kent  and  Canaan — a  northward  reach 
of  twenty-five  miles,  which  brings  the  valley  of  the  Housatonic  close  upon  the  dividing 
line  between  Connecticut  and  Massachusetts.  This  interval  is  rich  in  picturesque  delights. 
The  lofty  ridge  has  now  assumed  a  true  mountain-aspect,  and  lifts  up,  here  and  there, 
such  noble  crowns  to  the  sky  as  tempt  the  tourist  to  unfold,  with  the  legendary  youth — 

"A  banner  with   the  strange  device, 
'  Excelsior! '  " 

Falls  Village  is  the  centre  of  some  of  the  chief  attractions  of  the  section  under 
notice.  There  is  a  chance  here,  moreover,  for  the  enjoyment  of  thoroughly  rural  enter- 
tainment, at  a  little  hostelry  nestled  in  a  glen  on  the  side  of  the  river  opposite  to  the 
village,  which,  like  many  of  the  Housatonic  villages,  is  less  picturesque  than  its  acces- 
sories. Close  at  hand  are  the  falls  of  the  Housatonic — the  most  prominent,  perhaps,  of 
the  cataracts  in  Connecticut.  They  are  worthy  of  attention,  but  it  is  difficult  to  avoid 
some  feeling  of  vexation  on  finding  that  near  views  of  them  are  blemished  by  the  un- 
sightly encroachments  of  that  barbarism  which,  under  the  misnomers  of  "  civilization " 
and  "  progress,"  clutter  our  water-falls  and  rapids  with  the  ugly  shanties  and  shops  where 
dwell  and  toil  the  gnomes  of  factories,  forges,  and  furnaces,  useful  indeed,  but  which  we 
would  fain  banish  into  caverns,  or  at  least  into  unlovely  corners.  These  falls  are  com- 
monly known  as  the  Canaan  Falls,  and  fill  up  the  whole  breadth  of  the  stream  with 
their  tumultuous  dash  and  roar  over  a  steep,  terraced  ledge  of  dark  rock.  Their  descent 
possibly  exceeds  fifty  feet ;  and,  seen  at  a  distance,  and  especially  under  the  sweet,  soft 
magic  of  the  moonlight,  they  inspire  no  small  degree  of  admiration  in  the  sensitive 
mind. 

Mount  Prospect  rises  about  two  miles  from  these  falls,  in  a  northwestern  direction  ; 
and  its  very  summit  may  be  reached  in  a  carriage,  by  the  rude  track  which  the  wood- 
men follow  with  their  teams.  When  gained,  it  opens  to  the  view  of  the  tourist  such  a 
scene  as  he  can  obtain  from  few  other  mountain-crests  in  the  valley,  though  some  are  of 
more  renown  than  this.  The  great  bosom  of  the  interval  between  the  east  and  west 
ranges  of  hills  is  heaving  with  its  green  billows  beneath  him.  A  thousand  wavy  crests 
are  in  his  view ;  and,  threading  its  way  near  and  afar,  the  silvery  line  of  the  river 
stretches  amid  picturesque  homesteads,  which  now  and  then  cluster  into  villages.  A 
deep,  dark,  and  ugly  fissure  into  wild,  outlying  rocks,  at  the  foot  of  this  mountain,  bears 
the  appropriate  but  not  attractive  name  of  the  Wolf's  Den. 


296 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Within  an  hour's  walk  of  the  Great  Falls  lies  the  pretty  village  of  Salisbury,  which, 
while  it  is  not  a  railway-station — to  its  positive  advantage  in  all  picturesque  respects — 
is,  nevertheless,  the  social  centre  of  the  beautiful  and  populous  county  of  Litchfield. 
Lying  close  under  the  deep  shadows  of  the  great  Taconics,  Mount  Riga  may  be  said  to 


Old    Mill,    Sage's    Ravine. 


be  its  especial  guardian,  whose  noble  crest,  known  as  Bald  Peak,  alternately  smiles   upon 
it  in  sunshine  and  frowns  upon  it  in  storm. 

It  would  carry  the  reader  quite  out  of  the   Housatonic  Valley  to  press  him  beyond 
Bald    Peak    on    to    the    Dome,  and  westward   still,  a  dozen  miles,  until  we    came   to   the 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    HO  USA  TONIC. 


297 


renowned  ravine  of  Bashbish, 
and  its  grand  but  gloomy 
water-fall,  closely  overlooking 
the  little  iron-working  village 
of  Copake,  in  New  York,  and 
on  the  line  of  the  Harlem 
Railway, 

Without    overpassing    the 
ridges    of    the     Taconic,    and 
quite  within  the  le- 
gitimate      compass 
of  our   theme,  it  is 


Silver  Cascade,  Sage's  Ravine. 

proper  for  us  to  ex- 
plore    a     mountain- 
gorge     less     known 
than     Bashbish,    with    less    of    the 
terrible,  but  with   far   more    of  the 
beautiful,  in  its  aspect.     Sage's  Ra- 
vine   is    but    an    easy    walk  —  or   a 
delightful    drive,    if    preferred  —  of 
four  miles  from  Salisbury.    Wheth- 
er  it    is    more   a    Berkshire   than  a 
Salisbury  "  Hon,"  let  us  leave  in  the 
doubt  we  cannot  now  resolve.     It 
lies  along  the  dividing  line  of  towns  and  States  alike,  and  is  certainly  a  grand  bisector. 
At  the  mouth  of  this  noble  ravine  there  are  a  fine  old  mill,  and  a  picturesque  bridge 


298  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

spanning  the  torrent  which  comes  dashing  and  foaming  down  the  wild  cleft.  The  sug- 
gestion of  trout-treasures  in  the  pools  and  eddies  of  this  noisy  brook,  which  the  artist 
has  put  in  his  picture,  is  by  no  means  gratuitous.  That  eager-eyed  fisherman  is  sure  of 
his  game,  unless  his  looks  belie  him ;  and,  if  he  were  a  mile  above  the  mill,  with  his 
rod  and  line  he  might  still  fill  his  creel  with  the  speckled  beauties,  and  be  happy. 

Leave  the  roar  of  the  falls  and  the  clatter  of  the  mill-gear  behind,  and  go  up  the 
ravine,  with  some  one  to  show  you  the  possible  paths — if  it  should  be  young  Gilmore, 
of  the  contiguous  iron-furnace,  you  will  be  fortunate. 

There  is  hard  climbing  before  the  Twin  Falls  of  our  picture  are  reached.  Your 
feet  will  sink  in  clumps  of  moss  and  decayed  wood,  upsetting  you  if  you  are  not  wary. 
You  must  cling  to  birch-boles,  and  often  to  slenderer  stems,  as  you  swing  round  oppos- 
ing barriers  of  rock.  You  may  get  a  foot-bath,  or  worse,  as  you  cross  the  foaming  tor- 
rent to  find  an  easier  path  on  the  other  side.  But  here  and  there,  all  along  the  wild 
way,  are  pretty  cascades,  tortuous  twists  of  the  stream,  gayly-lichened  or  dark-beetling 
rocks,  mossy  nooks  or  gloomy  tarns,  and,  overhead,  maples  and  birches,  mingling  their 
rare  autumnal  splendors  of  red  and  gold  with  the  sombre  greens  of  hemlocks,  and  cedars, 
and  pines.  The  glory  above,  and  the  dash  and  foam  at  your  very  feet,  will  stir  your 
soul,  if  Nature's  charms  can  ever  do  so.  Two  hours  will  suffice  for  the  ravine,  and  tire 
you  at  their  close,  but  no  consciousness  of  fatigue  will  avail  to  mar  your  sense  of  the 
rare  beauty  and  picturesqueness  of  the  whole  scene. 

The  thrifty  Berkshire  farmer,  whose  hospitable  homestead  lies  just  north  of  the  old 
mill,  is  the  descendant  and  inheritor  of  him  who  gave  his  honest  though  unromantic 
name  to  the  ravine,  "  a  hundred  years  ago." 

A  week  in  Salisbury  would  be  none  too  much  time  for  the  leisurely  enjoyment  of 
the  many  charming  views  to  be  found  in  its  neighborhood.  There,  very  near  to  the 
iron-smelting  hamlet  of  Chapinville,  spread  the  sweet  waters  of  the  Twin  Lakes — the 
Washinee  and  Washineen — encompassed  by  winding  drives,  with  ever-shifting  visions  of 
the  kingly  Taconic  crests,  and  these,  on  the  nether  slopes,  displaying,  in  the  bright  autumn 
days,  such  splendors  of  variegated  color  as  would  intoxicate  with  delight  the  heart  of  a 
devotee  of  illuminated  missals. 

These  pretty  lakes  lie  in  enticing  proximity  to  a  limestone  cave,  into  which  the 
tourist  may  be  induced  to  venture  by  the  promise  of  rare  visions 

"...  of  stalactites  and  stalagmites, 
In  chambers  weird  and  dim." 

And,  lest  he  should  yield  to  the  temptation  and  do  as  we  did  once — go  into  the  cave 
with  an  inadequate  supply  of  candles,  and  pay  for  the  improvidence  by  half  a  day's  in- 
carceration in  total  darkness  and  in  equally  dense  impatience — let  him  be  warned  to  take 
care  with  whom   he    goes,  and,  above    all,   to    take  with    him    some    extra    "  dips."     With 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    HOUSATONIC. 


299 


these  precautions,  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  SaHsbury  Cave  may  be  for  him  a  place  of 
pleasanter  memories  than  it  is  to  us,  as  we  review  our  adventures  in  that  part  of  the 
Housatonic  Valley. 

Canaan,  near  the  outgoing  of  the  river  and  valley  from  the  Connecticut  border,  is 
an  important  station  on  the  two  railways — the  Housatonic  and  the  Connecticut  West- 
ern— at  their  common  intersection.  A  pretty  village  in  itself,  it  has  its  special  pictu- 
resqueness  along  the  pleasant  little  valley  of  the  Blackberry  River,  on  whose  banks 
it  lies. 

Leaving  it,  the  tourist  crosses,  almost  immediately,  the  southern  boundary-line  of  the 


Mount    Washington,    from    Sheffield. 


renowned  Berkshire  County,  a  region  not  surpassed,  in  picturesque  loveliness,  throughout 
its  whole  longitude  of  fifty  miles  and  its  average  latitude  of  twenty  miles,  by  any  equal 
area  in  New  England,  and  perhaps  not  in  all  this  Western  world. 

The  slave  to  the  railway  and  its  "  rapid  car "  will  not,  probably,  discover  the  truth 
of  this  broad  generalization.  He  may,  and  indeed,  unless  he  sleeps  in  the  transit,  or  does 
the  next  most  heathenish  thing — reads  some  narrow-printed  page  instead  of  that  open  vol- 
ume where  God  has  imprinted  his  own  grand  symbols  of  beauty  and  power — he  must, 
see  a  surpassingly-varied   landscape,  with    perhaps    astonishing    atmospheric    effects,  .though 


300 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Prospect  Rock,  East  Mountain, 
Great  Barrington 


for  these  he  needs  to 
bide  through  changing 
skies,  and  hours,  and 
moods  of  Nature.  Off 
the  railway,  in  village- 
nooks,  in  glens  and  by- 
ways, upon  near  crests 
and  remote  hill-tops,  the 
lover  of  the  beautiful  will 
find  innumerable  views  to 
gaze  upon,  to  sketch,  or 
haply  to  daguerreotype 
only  on  his  memory. 

Sheffield  is  a  good 
lingering-point  for  those 
who  do  not  wisely  shun, 
amid  Nature's  charms, 
the  shrill  pipe  of  the  en- 
gine, and  the  sharp  click 


"1"-^-'  of    the    electric    hammer. 

From  Sheffield  the  ascent  of  Mount  Washington 
' — one  of  the  Taconic  giants — is  easily  made  ;  and 
the  toil  It  requires  will  be  a  cheap  purchase  of  "  far  prospects,"  ex- 
changed for  the  "level  bliss"  of  the  vale  at  its  foot.  Mount  Washing- 
ton was  once  a  part  of  the  great  Livingston  Manor,  and  its  summit 
commands  a  view  of  the  rich  and  lordly  domain  once  included  in 
that  now  half-forgotten  name. 

The  tourist  who  is  not  in  hot  haste  to  get  through  his  route,  as  if  it  were  a  task, 
and  not  a  treat,  could  hardly  do  better  than  to  take  up  his  abode  for  a  little  while  at 
the  Mount-Everett  House,  in  South  Egremont,  a  few  miles  east  of  the  railway,  and  just 
under  the  lofty  crest  whose  name  this  quiet  summer  hotel  bears.  Thence,  at  his  own 
sweet  will,  he  may  go  and  climb  or  ramble.  He  may  scale  the  mountain,  by  way  of  "  its 
vast,  uncultivated  slope,  to  a  height  of  two  thousand  feet."  There— to  his  astonishment, 
if  not  before  informed — he  would  find  a  village,  whose  ten  or  twelve  score  of  inhabitants 
are  literally  mountaineers,  and  whose  eyes  are  familiar,  by  daily  outlook,  with  such  a 
panorama  as  a  sensitive  valley  or  sea-side  dweller  would  go  into  ecstasies  to  behold.  It 
is  not  finer,  perhaps,  though  far  broader,  than  that  obtainable  from  Prospect  Mountain  ; 
but  then  it  takes  in  half  the  whole  stretch  of  the  Housatonic  River,  and  below  the 
eye  lie  lakes  and  woodlands,  lawns  and  villas,  gleaming  spires,  and    little   rifts  and  puffs 


THE     VALLEY    OF    TLIE    HO  USA  TONIC. 


301 


of  smoke  from  furnaces  and  creeping  engines ;  and  all  this  so  far  away,  so  still,  that  it 
is  more  like  a  picture  on  canvas  than  a  real  scene.  East  and  west,  the  eye  has  broad 
extent  of  vision  into  Connecticut  and  New  York.  The  Catskills  make  a  blue  and  wavy 
western  horizon ;    and  the   Hudson,  in    the    interval,  twins    the    nearer    Housatonic    in   its 


Green    River,    at    Great    Barrington. 

sparkling   flow      Here   one    may  fitly  repeat   Thomson's   panegyric    on  a  vision   not  alto- 
gether unlike  it,  perhaps,  but  in  Old  rather  than  in   New  England  : 

"  Heavens  !    what  a  goodly  prospect  spreads  around, 
Of  hills  and  dales,  of  woods  and  lawns  and  spires, 
And  glittering  towns  and  gilded  streams,  till  all 
The  stretching  landscape  into  smoke  decays  !  " 


The  practical  man,  who  shuns  the  toilsome  clamber  to  Mount  Everett's  crest,  may 
go  afoot,  or  in  his  light  wagon,  from  his  inn,  to  see  the  famous  marble-quarries  of  Egre- 
mont,  whence  were  hewn  the  white  columns  and  walls  of  the  Girard  College,  more  than 
a  third  of  a  century  ago,  and  where  to-day  the  old  proprietor  is  still  busily  blasting  and 


302 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


blocking  out  the  brill- 
iant stones,  with  far 
easier  access  to  the 
market  than  when  he 
sent  them  by  ox-teams  to  the  Hudson. 
Great  Barrington  —  a  name  from 
which  the  modesty,  perhaps,  of  its  peo- 
ple is  gradually  eliminating  the  adjec- 
tive— is  a  most  attractive  point  in  the 
valley  of  the  Housatonic.  The  river,  los- 
ing all  the  while  in  volume,  is  gaining 
in  picturesqueness.  Its  narrowing  banks  wear  greener  and  lovelier  fringes,  and  its  tones 
ring  more  musically  in  the  swift,  broken  and  impetuous  lapses  of  its  waters.  Barrington 
has  many  summer  charms,  in  its  splendid  elms  shading  its  streets,  in  its  attractive  drives 
over  fine  roads,  and  in  its  pleasant  society.  All  around  the  village  one  may  find  new  and 
lovely  outlooks  on  the  closely-encompassing  hills.  The  stout-hearted  pilgrim  may  think 
it  worth  while  to  covet  the  seat  and  copy  the  example  of  the  adventurer  whom  the  artist 
has  giddily  enthroned  upon  the  very  verge  of  Prospect  Rock. 

A  stroll  along  the  road  that  leads  to   the    two    Egremonts — North   and    South — will 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    HOUSA  TONIC.  303 

bring  the  visitor  to  a  charming  bit  of  land-and-water  view  at  the  rural  bridge  over  Green 
River,  a  babbling  stream  that  flows  along  as  if  in  sweet  and  delighted  consciousness  of 
the  beauty  it  here  and  there  discloses. 

It  would  be  a  great  mistake  of  the  explorer  of  Berkshire  to  go  from  Harrington  to 
Stockbridge  by  rail,  unless,  indeed,  he  had  exhausted  the  interval  by  slower  inspection. 
The  highway  is  the  shorter  by  nearly  two  miles,  and  not  a  furlong  of  it  all  is  tame  or 
tedious,  for  it  is  thick  set  with  those  sweet  surprises  that  characterize  ridge-roads  in 
Berkshire: 

Its  half-way  wonder  is  the  renowned  Monument  Mountain,  which  Stockbridge  num- 
bers, with  allowable  pride,  among  her  special  attractions.  This  mountain  was  called  by 
the  Muh-hek-a-new  Indians — the  old  Stockbridge  tribe — "  Maus-was-see-ki,"  which  means 
"  The  Fisher's  Nest."  Its  present  appellation  was  given  to  it,  perhaps,  on  account  of  a 
cairn  found  upon  its  southern  crest,  which  has  connected  with  it  an  Indian  myth  of  a 
dusky  maiden  who,  disappointed  in  love,  jumped  from  the  precipice,  and  was  killed — a 
love-lorn  sacrifice  which  the  braves  commemorated  by  flinging  a  stone  upon  the  fatal  spot 
whenever  they  passed  by  it.     With  or  without  legend,  it  is  a  weird  and  romantic  spot. 

From  Monument  Mountain  to  the  village  of  Stockbridge  is  less  than  half  an  hour's 
drive,  when  the  carriage-road  has  been  regained.  This  village — the  "  Housatonnuc "  of 
past  generations — is  of  a  romantic  beauty.  Its  houses  and  churches,  its  library  and 
academy,  its  fountain  and  monuments,  are  pretty  mosaics  set  in  the  emerald  of  wonder- 
ful elms.  There  are  few — if,  indeed,  there  are  any — villages  in  our  land  that  can  rival  it 
in  rare  and  fascinating  aspects  of  rural  beauty,  in  immediate  surroundings  of  unwonted 
charms,  in  worthy  and  precious  historical  associations,  and  in  the  renown  of  noble  sons 
and  daughters.  The  beauties  of  Stockbridge  lie  in  many  directions.  To  the  north,  the 
pretty  lake  Mahkeenac — more  familiarly  known  as  the  "  Stockbridge  Bowl " — spreads  its 
translucent  waters,  shapely,  in  its  outline,  as  a  gigantic  basin,  on  whose  margin  Hawthorne 
once  lived  for  a  succession  of  seasons.  A  mile  or  more  from  the  village  is  found  that 
wonder  of  Nature,  the  Ice  Glen,  which  pierces  the  northern  spur  of  Bear  Mountain  ; 
and  in  its  long  and  awsome  corridors  and  crypts,  formed  by  massive  and  gloomy  rocks, 
and  huge  but  prostrate  trees,  the  explorer  may  find  masses  of  ice  in  the  heart  and  heat 
of  midsummer.  The  passage  of  this  glen,  though  not  perilous,  requires  nerve  and  pa- 
tience, and  the  cheer  of  glowing  torches  withal.  The  heights  that  overhang  the  village 
are  "  beautiful  for  situation,"  and  studded  with  pleasant  villas,  whose  fortunate  possessors 
may  gaze  at  will  over  the  fair  interlocking  valleys  of  the  Housatonic  and  the  Konkapot. 

Among  the  names  that  memory  loves  to  recall  in  connection  with  old  Stockbridge, 
none  will  live  so  long  or  so  prominently  in  history  as  that  of  Jonathan  Edwards.  This 
distinguished  divine  was  not  a  native  of  the  village,  and,  indeed,  lived  there  only  a  few 
years  ;  but  he  was  so  closely  identified,  for  that  time,  with  all  the  interests  of  the  place, 
and  especially  with  its  religious  and  missionary  work,  that  he  grew  rapidly  into  the  reve- 


304 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Ijf  Housatonic  River,  at  Stockbridge. 

rential  regard  and  love  of  its  people. 
It  was  there  that  he  wrote  his  famous 
work,  "The  Freedom  of  the  Will,"  un- 
doubtedly his  master-work.  The  sal- 
ary of  this  great  preacher — as  the  pas- 
^^^~""      " "  tor   of    the    Stockbridge    Church,    and 

distinct  from  his  remuneration  as  mis- 
sionary to  the  Indians — was,  in  money,  less  than  seven  pounds  sterling  per  annum,  and 
two  pounds  more  in  value  paid  in  wood !  Stockbridge  honored  the  memory  of  this 
remarkable  man  by  erecting  to  him,  on  the  village  green,  a  monument  of  polished 
Scotch  granite. 

On  leaving  Stockbridge,  the  tourist  may  scarcely  venture  to  promise  himself  a  beauty 
beyond  that  he  has  already  enjoyed  ;  and  this  may  be  suggested  without  disparagement 
to  the  varied  scenery  of  Northern  Berkshire.  It  may  hardly  be  doubted  that  the  rare 
and  numerous  attractions  of  this  whole  region — so  aptly  called  "  the  Palestine  of  New 
England  " — are  crystallized,  in  excess  of  loveliness,  around  Stockbridge  as  a  nucleus.  If 
this  verdict  had  gathered  something  of  weight  to  the  judgment  from  the  acknowledged 
union  in  Stockbridge  of  all  the  forces — natural,  historical,  social,  intellectual,  and  religious, 
alike — which  have  given  to  Berkshire  its  enviable  renown,  the  influence  would  be,  never- 
theless, legitimate  and  just. 

There  is,  however,  much  beyond  this  picturesque  centre  deserving  the  regard  of  all 
the  lovers  of  Nature.  And  this  imich  comprehends  novelty,  as  well  as  similarity,  of 
landscape  and  water  view.     It   is,  indeed,  only  that  one  half  of  Berkshire  has  been  seen, 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    HOUSA  TONIC.  305 

that  the  other  half  will  possibly  present  fewer  "  delicious  surprises "  than  otherwise  to  the 
eye  of  the  explorer.  There  are  new  outlines  of  the  mountains  to  be  studied ;  new 
groupings  of  their  massive  forms,  with  new  details  and  specialties  of  glen,  and  lake,  and 
water-fall,  to  be  noted. 

The  Hoosac  range  of  lofty  hills,  on  the  east,  comes  now  into  distinct  and  close 
rivalry  with  the  Taconics,  on  the  west ;  and  far  away,  in  the  northern  end  of  the  county, 
the  lordly  Graylock  lifts  his  blue  crest  with  such  preeminence  of  majestic  mien  that  the 
many  peaks  already  named  sink  inferior  to  its  grand  central  prominence. 

Lee  and  Lenox  are  the  two  villages  that  lie  in  the  Housatonic  Valley  between 
Stockbridge  and  Pittsfield,  which  latter  village  is  rapidly  growing  into  the  rank  of  a  city, 
and  is  the .  metropolis  of  all  the  Berkshire  region. 

At  Lee,  through  which  the  railway  passes,  the  river  is  quite  as  useful  as  it  is  beau- 
tiful, lending  its  force  and  purity  alike  to  the  paper-mills  which  have  contributed  so 
much  to  build  up  and  enrich  the  village.  Another  and  perhaps  the  chief  industry  of 
this  thriving  and  attractive  place  is  the  quarrying  of  its  fine,  white  building-marble,  which 
represents  Berkshire,  with  such  solid  and  permanent  effect,  in  the  walls  of  the  Capitol  at 
Washington.  Lee  has  a  pretty  lake,  within  a  pleasant  half-hour's  walk  on  the  road  to 
Lenox  ;  but,  for  heavier  charms,  its  summer  guests  make  excursions  to  quaint  old  Mon- 
terey and  to  Tyringham,  on  the  east,  and  to  Lenox  and  Stockbridge,  between  which 
places  it  is  about  equidistant. 

Lenox  lies  two  miles  apart  from  the  line  of  the  railway,  having  a  station  only  at 
Lenox  Furnace.  At  few — if  at  any — points  immediately  on  the  iron  track  we  are  fol- 
lowing is  there  so  much  to  charm  and  detain  the  eye  as  at  this  station.  The  sweet, 
translucent  river,  its  rustic  bridge,  the  swelling  knolls  of  the  interval,  and  the  bold,  grand 
sweep  of  the  near  mountains,  make  up  a  most  exquisite  picture,  to  which  no  artist's  eye 
could  be  indifferent,  even  amid  the  profusion  of  charming  views  springing  up  on  every 
hand. 

At  Lenox  Furnace  the  double  industry  of  glass  and  iron  working  gives  occupation 
to  numerous  workmen.  The  recent  production  there  of  excellent  plate -glass,  from  the 
fine-granulated  quartz  of  the  region  about  it,  is  a  noteworthy  incident  in  the  manufactur- 
ing annals  of  Berkshire. 

Of  Lenox  itself — reached  by  a  drive  of  constantly-increasing  picturesqueness — these 
chronicles  can  make  but  inadequate  mention.  Professor  Silliman  designated  it,  in  his 
enthusiastic  admiration  of  its  pure,  exhilarating  air,  and  its  lovely  views,  "  a  gem  among 
the  mountains."  It  deserves  the  praise.  Till  recently,  it  was  the  shire-town  of  the 
region,  and  term-time  gave  it  a  measure  of  importance  and  influence  which  it  has  since 
lost.  But  it  cannot  lose  its  beauty,  and  the  summer  doubles  its  population  with  hundreds 
of  happy  pilgrims    from    the    cities,  some  of  whom    occupy  their  own  villas,  while    more 

crowd  its  hotel  and  the  numerous  boarding-houses  which  challenge  this  periodical  influx. 

110 


3o6 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Ice   Glen,    Stockbridge. 


All  around  Lenox,  the  crests  and  slopes  of  its  constituent  and  outlying  hills  are 
covered  by  mansions  and  villas,  which  one  might  remember  for  their  architectural  indi- 
viduality, if  this  were  not  always  eclipsed  by  the  surpassing  breadth  and  beauty  of  the 
outlook. 

To    describe    this,  would    be    to    repeat— only,  perhaps,  with    new   allocations    of  epi- 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    HOUSATONIC.  307 

thets — what  has  been  said  of  the  more  southern  part  of  the  valley.  Here,  however, 
the  dwellings  are  far  more  numerous,  and  a  richer  social  element  mingles  with  and  en- 
hances the  simply  picturesque   in   the   landscape. 

That  gifted  and  genial  woman,  Frederika  Bremer,  is  but  one  of  a  score  of  literary 
notabilities  who,  living,  or  lingering  for  a  while  at  least,  amid  the  charms  of  Lenox,  have 
recorded  their  admiration  of  it  in  glowing  words.  Hers  may  serve  as  a  type  of  their 
kindred  utterances.  She  writes :  "  The  country  around  Lenox  is  romantically  lovely,  in- 
spired with  wood-covered  hills,  and  the  prettiest  little  lakes."  In  describing  the  Housa- 
tonic  scenery  more  generally,  she  justly  uses  these  emphatic  expressions — "wonderfully 
picturesque,  and  sometimes  splendidly  gloomy." 

It  was  at  Lenox  that  Fanny  Kemble  lived,  and  expressed  the  wish  to  be  buried, 
saying :  "  I  will  not  rise  to  trouble  any  one,  if  they  will  let  me  sleep  here.  I  will  only 
ask  to  be  permitted,  once  in  a  while,  to  raise  my  head  and  look  out  upon  this  glorious 
scene." 

The  English  origin  of  this  delightful  place  is  commemorated,  after  the  lapse  of  more 
than  twelve  decades,  in  its  name,  which  was  the  patronymic  of  the  Duke  of  Richmond. 

The  fine  view  which  the  "  Ledge "  contributes  to  the  embellishment  of  this  paper 
will  be  its  own  best  commentary  on  the  breadth  and  manifold  charms  of  the  Lenox 
landscape.  The  summer  guests  of  Lenox  find  great  delight  in  gazing  out  from  its  noble 
"  coignes  of  vantage."  For  still  wider  range  of  vision,  they  go  to  Perry's  Peak,  a  bald  and 
lonely  summit  on  the  west,  easily  reached  in  an  hour's  ride,  and  standing  like  a  grim 
sentinel  on  the  New -York  border. 

There  is  a  scientific  interest,  also,  about  Perry's  Peak,  in  that  it  is  strewed  with  the 
fine  bowlders  which  are  traced,  in  seven  parallel  lines,  across  the  Richmond  Valley,  inter- 
vening between  the  peak  and  Lenox  Mountain.  These  stones  attracted  the  careful  notice 
and  diligent  review  of  that  eminent  English  geologist.  Sir  Charles  Lyell.  On  this  peak, 
also,  in  1869,  some  local  scientific  associations  held  a  "field-day"  for  the  especial  com- 
memoration of  the  centennial  anniversary  of  Humboldt's  birthday.  A  fine  photograph  of 
the  grand  old  savant  was  uncovered,  and  a  tribute-poem  read,  on  the  pleasant  occasion. 

Among  the  attractive  points  included  in  the  magnificent  overlook  from  the  peak 
are  the  Shaker  villages  of  both  Lebanon,  in  New  York,  and  Hancock,  in  Massachusetts, 
the  former  being,  perhaps,  the  metropolis  of  the  sect  of  Shakers.  The  Boston  and  Albany 
Railway  passes  close  by  the  village  of  the  Hancock  Shakers,  and  has  a  station  there. 
The  town  of  Hancock  is  itself  one  of  the  outlying  characteristics  of  the  Housatonic 
Valley.  It  is  altogether  mountainous,  being  only  a  long  and  narrow  tract  on  the  back- 
bone and  slopes  of  the  Taconic  range,  with  a  single  hamlet  crouching  in  a  beautiful 
cove,  or  interval,  near  the  northern  end  of  it.  The  roads  which  cross  this  attenuated 
township  are  very  romantic  and  very  rough,  except,  perhaps,  those  from  Lebanon  and 
Hancock  villages  direct,  which  are  fine  in  summer,  and  much  travelled. 


3o8 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Pittsfield  is  the  terminus  of  the  Housatonic  Railway,  one  hundred  and  ten  miles 
from  Bridgeport  ;  and  here  the  Housatonic  River  dwindles  greatly  by  its  division  into 
two  arms,  one  of  which  flows  from  Pontoosuc  Lake  just  northward,  and  the  other,  with 
far  greater  meandering,  from  distant  northeastern  hills  in   Berkshire  towns. 


Lenox   Station. 

Pittsfield  commemorates  in  its  name  the  fame  of  England's  noble  statesman,  William 
Pitt.  It  is  one  of  the  handsomest  villages  in  New  England,  and  perhaps  the  "  New- 
England  Hand-Book "  anticipates  events  only  the  least  in  calling  it  a  "  city."  It  might 
be  so,  but  it  is  not  now.  It  is  already  suburban  in  its  aspects,  and  exhibits  fine  archi- 
tectural ambitions  in  several  recent  public  buildings. 

Its  just    pride    in    its    history,  and  in  that  of  the  county  it  represents,  had   a   happy 


View    from   the    "Ledge,"    Lenox. 


exposition,  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  in  the  Berkshire  Jubilee,  a  festival  which  gathered 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  Berkshire  by  hundreds  "  from  near  and  from  far,"  and  made  a 
bright  and  memorable  page  of  history  for  the  place.      The    historic  elm-tree  of    Pittsfield. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    HOUSA  TONIC. 


309 


Banks    of  the    Housatonic,    at    Pittsfield. 


which  stood  and  bourgeoned  for  more  than  three  centuries  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
village,  was  necessarily  cut  down  in  1864;  and  the  ground  it  once  shaded  is  now  a 
pretty  park,  adorned  with  a  fountain  and  a  soldiers'  monument  designed  by  Launt 
Thompson. 

The    industry   of   Pittsfield    is    chiefly   directed    to    manufactures  of  cotton  and  wool, 


3IO 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Graylock    Mountain,    from   South   Adams. 

facilitated  by  the  fine  water  -  power 
which  the  Housatonic,  though  shrunk 
to  narrow  streams,  still  avails  to  furnish. 
The  large  church  to  which  the 
late  Dr.  Todd  ministered  for  twenty 
years  is  the  foremost  of  half  a  dozen  of  various  denominations,  which  are  all  in  vigorous 
growth.  Several  banks  represent  the  wealth  of  the  village.  It  has  good  schools,  both 
public  and  private.  Of  the  latter,  Maplewood  Female  Seminary,  situated  upon  charming 
grounds,  has  won  a  fair  renown. 

Such  is  Pittsfield,  the  capital  of  the  Housatonic  Valley,  at  a  slight  external  glance 
A  closer  view  would  reveal  more  than  ordinary  social  culture  among  its  inhabitants. 
Music  and  the  fine  arts  have  their  happy  influence  there;  and  a  generously-endowed  in- 
stitution, known  and  incorporated  as  the  "  Berkshire  Athenseum,"  is  destined  to  be  an 
elevating  and  refining  power  in  the  community. 

Pittsfield  is  situated  at  an  average  elevation  of  nearly  eleven  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea.  Its  position  is  peculiar,  as  being  the  geographical  centre  of  valleys  and  defiles, 
affording  opportunities  for  crossing  its  flanking  mountains  such  as  are  found   at  no  other 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    HOUSATONIC.  311 

single  point.  Pittsfield  is  the  centre  of  perhaps  as  many  distinct  attractions  for  the  sum- 
mer tourist  as  any  other  Berkshire  village ;  and  its  growing  likeness  to  a  city  in  the 
special  facilities  it  affords-^railway,  postal,  hotel,  shopping,  and  social — makes  it  an  excel- 
lent place  for  the  headquarters  of  the  visitor  in  all  the  length  and  breadth  of  its  match- 
less shire. 

In  every  direction  from  the  village,  fine,  natural  roads  lead  to  lovely  scenes.  The 
Taconic  and  the  Hoosac  ranges  of  mountains  are  about  four  miles  distant,  on  the  west 
and  east  respectively ;  and  from  their  slopes,  or  their  summits,  Berkshire — both  Southern 
and  Northern — opens  broad  vistas  to  the  eye. 

Some  of  the  reaches  of  the  Housatonic  River  near  the  village  are  of  great  beauty; 
and  there  are  places  on  the  banks  of  its  eastern  confluent  where  it  would  be  meet  to 
sit,  of  a  summer  eve,  and  read  or  quote  Tennyson's  dainty  rhymes  of  the  brook  that 
would  "  go  on  forever." 

One  of  the  fairest  views  in  all  the  county — the  especial  pride,  perhaps,  of  the  people 
of  Pittsfield,  as  it  well  may  be — is  that  which  takes  in  and  overpasses  the  exquisite  con- 
tour of  Onota  Lake,  two  miles  to  the  west.  This  view,  besides  its  immediate  loveliness, 
in  the  silvery  sheen  of  its  waters,  and  the  sweet  variety  of  the  pastoral  and  wooded 
banks  that  environ  them,  has  for  its  central  but  remote  background  the  splendid  outline 
of  old 

"  Graylock,  cloud-girdled  on  his  purple  throne." 

In  the  near  east  rises  the  fine  range  of  the  Washington  Hills,  of  the  Hoosac  Chain, 
over  which  the  Boston  Railway  is  carried  by  sharp  gradients  of  eighty  feet  in  a  mile. 
On  their  crest  is  a  romantic  lakelet,  called  Ashley  Pond,  the  water  of  which  is  brought 
into  the  village — at  present  only  a  barely  adequate  supply  for  its  demands,  but  soon  to 
be  reenforced  from  a  neighboring  pond,  a  recent  purchase  of  the  Pittsfield  Gas  and 
Water  Company. 

Roaring  Brook,  the  outlet  of  a  contiguous  pond,  is  a  wild  mountain-torrent  that 
dashes  down  the  side  of  the  mountain  in  a  rugged  cleft  known  as  Tories'  Gorge.  This 
brook  is  a  tributary  of  the  eastern  branch  of  the  Housatonic.  To  the  eastward,  also,  lies 
the  village  of  Dalton,  with  its  busy  paper-mills ;  and  beyond  it,  on  the  acclivity  of  the 
Boston  Railway,  the  village  of  Hinsdale,  from  which  point,  as  also  from  Dalton,  the  very 
pretty  Windsor  Falls  may  be  reached  by  a  brief  carriage-drive.  These  falls  lie  at  the 
extreme  limit  of  the  review  which  this  article  will  make  of  the  Housatonic  Valley.  Be- 
yond them  the  "  winding  waters "  narrow  into  shining  becks  and  brawling  brooks,  and 
make  up  the  vision  pictured  by  Holmes  in  his  pleasant  verses  of 

"...  the  stream  whose  silver-braided  rills 
Fling  their  unclasping  bracelets  from  the  hills,     - 
Till,  in  one  gleam  beneath  the  forest-wings. 
Melts  the  white  glitter  of  a  hundred  springs." 


312 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


West  of  Pittsfield,  beyond  Onota  already  named,  a  mountain-road  leads  across  Han- 
cock Town  to  Lebanon  Springs,  and  to  the  village  of  the  Lebanon  Shakers,  affording, 
all  the  way,  lovely  prospects,  but,  from  its  highest  point,  a  scene  never  to  be  forgotten. 
It  takes  in  the  whole  expanse  of  the  sweet  vale  of  Lebanon,  and,  beyond  this,  stretches 
away  to  the  Catskills,  vague  and  violet-hued. 

Northward  of  Onota,  on   the   slopes   of  the    Taconics,  are    found    delightful    bits   of 


:iz_ 

--         -V^»S»: 

^^ 

■^' 

,^fe 

-<£^i/£    Jfi 

^^^^P 

Hoosac    River,    North    Adams. 


Nature — here,  the  Lulu  Cascade,  a  much-frequented  haunt  of  those  who  fain  would  find 
where  the  "shy  arbutus"  hides;  there.  Rolling  Rock,  a  huge  and  nicely-poised  bowlder; 
and  far  above  it,  on  the  table  of  a  giant  crest,  as  pretty  a  mountain-lake  as  the  eye 
could  covet.  It  is  called  Berry  Pond,  but  not  for  the  profusion  of  raspberries  to  be 
found  there  in  summer.     The  name  is  said  to  be  that  of  a  stout-limbed  and  brave-hearted 


777^     VALLEY    OF    THE    HOUSATONIC. 


l^i 


Natural    Bridge,    North   Adams. 


man  who  once  lived  on  its  borders,  and  wrested  from  the  scanty  soil  about  the  pond 
a  living  for  himself  and  family.  The  lakelet  has  crystal  waters,  a  sparkling,  sandy  beach, 
is  fringed  by  masses  of  evergreen  and  deciduous  trees,  and  to  these  charms  adds  that  of 
a  clear,  fairy-like  echo  to  all  sounds  upon  its  margin. 

Northward  of   Pittsfield    lie    Pontoosuc,  a  populous  mill-suburb,  and    a    lake    bearing 


111 


314  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

its  name ;  and,  three  miles  beyond,  old  Lanesboro'  is  reached  by  a  delightful  drive.  Here 
the  visitor  should  not  fail  to  make  a  slight  circuit,  and  gain,  either  afoot  or  in  a  carriage, 
the  summit  of  Constitution  Hill,  lying  just  west  of  the  village  and  the  iron-furnace.  Of 
the  view  to  be  obtained  by  this  excursion  let  a  resident  of  Berkshire,  and  a  contributor 
to  Appletons'  Journal  of  some  popular  papers  on  the  glories  of  that  region,  afford  the 
reader  a  few  glimpses : 

"  Though  you  can  drive  to  the  very  summit  if  you  are  sure  of  your  horse,  you  will 
grow  dizzy  as  your  eye  rests  on  the  grand  prospect  outspread  before  you — green,  fertile 
valleys,  reminding  one  of  that  which  shut  in  the  happy  Rasselas ;  blue  lakes ;  Pontoosuc 
at  your  feet,  Onota  farther  south,  and  Silver  Lake  east  of  Pittsfield ;  great  stretches  of 
table-land,  well  tilled,  and  spanned  by  shady  roads ;  forests  that  look  as  old  as  creation, 
and  hills  mantled  with  a  fresher  growth  ;  the  line  of  rich  foliage  which  marks  the  course 
of  the  streams  that  unite  to  form  the  Housatonic ;  Lanesboro'  basking  on  the  hill-side, 
with  its  great  elms  drooping  over  its  old  homesteads  and  quaint  road-corners ;  Stearns- 
ville  and  Barkersville,  farther  off;  the  whole  extent  of  the  chief  town  in  the  valley,  its 
spires  gleaming  in  the  light ;  Lenox,  Lee,  and  Stockbridge,  through  the  opening  in  the 
hills ;  sunny  farm-houses,  grazing  cattle,  browsing  sheep,  brown  grain-fields,  flying  cloud- 
shadows — and  all  domed  by  a  brighter  than  an   Italian  sky." 

The  route  we  are  now  pursuing  is  aside  from  the  track  of  the  railway  which  con- 
nects Pittsfield  with  Adams  and  the  north  ;  and  the  true  tourist  would  greatly  prefer  to 
follow  its  rural  windings,  along  the  course  of  the  supposed  Upper  Housatonic,  now 
scarcely  more  than  a  rapid,  laughing  brook,  sliding  along  under  its  alder  and  willow 
fringes.  A  few  miles  still  farther  north,  in  the  town  of  New  Ashford,  it  is  lost  in  silvery 
threads  from  the  hills.  The  road  from  the  "  deserted  village "  of  New  Ashford  to  the 
Williamstowns  is  solitary,  but  beautiful,  with  its  ever-shifting  views  of  grand  mountain- 
outlines,  bringing  one  at  length  into  the  deep  shadows  and  sweet  repose  of  the  close- 
encompassing  hills  that  keep  solemn  watch  and  ward  over  the  time-honored  sanctuaries 
of  wisdom  at  Williams  College. 

This  hasty  generalization  has  done  no  justice  to  the  interval  of  twenty  miles  over 
which  we  have  glided  with  haste  that  would  be  impertinent,  if  these  notes  were  not 
necessarily  telegraphic  for  brevity.  Williamstown  is  a  unique  and  delightful  village,  with 
a  green  park  for  its  main  street,  and  the  sparkling,  hurrying  Hoosac  singing  along  its 
borders.  It  is  a  fit  place  for  study,  and  a  charming  one  for  summer  life  and  recreation, 
though  hardly  for  fashionable  dissipation,  to  which,  indeed,  its  vigilant  wardens  evermore 
oppose  their  classic  proctil. 

Visitors  at  Williamstown,  who  are  familiar  with  Swiss  scenery,  are  wont  to  say  that 
the  splendid  views  and  wonderful  atmospheric  effects  they  see  there  more  nearly  resemble 
Alpine  pictures  than  those  of  any  other  mountain-recesses  in  this  land. 

Our  promise,  in  the  opening  of  this    sketch,  that  it  would  carry  the    reader    beyond 


THE     VALLEY    OE    THE    HOUSATONIC. 


315 


the  Housatonic  Valley, 
has  been  fulfilled.  He  is 
now  in  the  valley  of  the 
Hoosac,  and  not  far  from 
the  termination  of  these  " 
autumn  rambles. 

Whoever  follows  the 
railway  from  Pittsfield  to 
this  region  passes  twen- 
ty miles  through  a  coun- 
try contrasting  strangely 
with  the  deep  rural  isola- 
tion of  that  just  glimpsed 
along  the  by-road  through 
New  Ashford.  It  is  a 
tract  of  new  activities  and 
industries,  of  glass  -  fur- 
naces and  sand  -  quarries, 
of  lumber-mills  and  cot- 
ton -  looms,  of  woollen- 
mills  and  populous  ham- 
lets— in  succession,  Berk- 
shire, Cheshire,  South 
Adams,  until  he  comes 
at  last  to  North  Adams, 
where  he  will  wonder 
more  and  more,  as  more 
he  sees,  how  so  large  and 
flourishing  and  ambitious 
a  town  has  contrived  to 
find  "  room  and  verge 
enough "  amid  the  en- 
compassing, encroaching, 
overhanging  hills,  for  its 
steady,  sturdy  growth. 

It  is  a  pushing  rival 
of  Pittsfield  ;    behind  it,  probably,  in  general,  but  making  well-founded   boast  of  excelling 
it    in    the  value  of  its   school-property,  as    it    does   equally  in   the  cost    and    elegance  of 
its  chief  hotel,  which  would   be  a  credit  to  any  city.      North  Adams  is  a  rich  manufact- 


Profile    Rock,    North   Adams. 


3i6 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Hoosac 


juntai 


wmm^^ 


uring  VI 

cheap  labor "  has   been    a   spe- 
cialty and    a    success   for   years    in    the 
shoe-shops.     It  is  the  upper  "  metropo- 
lis "  of   Berkshire,  and    is    more  thickly 
studded  about  with    wild  and  romantic 
spots    than    its    southern   sister.     Gray- 
lock,  the    loftiest    mountain    in    Massachusetts,  is  within  easy  distance,  though  not  visible 
from    its    streets.      It    is  perhaps   more  easily  reached  from    South  Adams,  a  less  bustling 
village,  four  miles  below,  whence    the    commanding   summit    may  be  seen   in  all  its  royal 
pomp,  rising  majestically  just  over  its  pleasant  homes. 

This  is  the  less  picturesque,  however,  of  the  two  or  three  routes  by  which  the  top 
of  Graylock  may  be  reached.  The  mountain  exercise  already  taken  by  the  Housatonic 
explorer,  when  he  comes  within  the  shadows  of  Graylock,  will  stand  him  in  stead  as  he 
contemplates  the  conquest  of  the  kingly  height.  It  is  no  child's  play,  especially  if  he 
chooses  the  North-Adams  and  Bald-Mountain  route,  by  that  mountain-cluster,  the  "  Hop- 
per." All  the  roads  need  great  improvement,  and  there  should  be  one,  at  least,  kept  in 
excellent  condition.  But  there  is  no  reaching  the  top  without  toil,  without  fatigue — no 
"  royal  road,"  though  the  end  of  the  way  is  most  royal. 

When  Graylock,  and    the    Hopper,  and  Money  Brook,  have    been    explored — or   be- 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    HO  USA  TONIC.  317 

tween  these  explorations,  as  separate  adventures — there  are  dainty  and  most  compensating 
"bits"  about  North  Adams,  which  should  not  be  left  unseen.  Some  of  these  lie  close 
about  that  curious  object,  the  Natural  Bridge,  a  rare  freak  of  the  waters  of  a  pretty 
brook  among  the  rocks — itself  a  scene  for  the  painter,  as  it  and  its  accessories  so  com- 
monly are  for  the  photographer.  The  Natural  Bridge  is  a  vast  roof  of  marble,  through 
and  under  which  a  mere  brook  has  yet  contrived,  with  incessant,  fretting  toil,  to  excavate 
a  tunnel — a  passage  five  or  six  yards  wide,  and  ten  times  as  long.  This  wonderful  via- 
duct is  loftily  arched  over  the  torrent,  and  displays  its  marble  sides  and  ceiling  some- 
times of  a  pure  white,  but  oftener  with  strange  discolorations,  as  of  mineral  stains  or 
lichen  -  growths.  Through  this  weird  corridor  the  brook  flows  w^th  thunderous  echoes, 
booming  up  to   the  ear  and  filling  the  mind   of  the   beholder  with  strange,  wild  fancies. 

In  the  ravine  of  this  brook  there  are  many  picturesque  points  to  arrest  the  tourist's 
attention,  but  next  in  interest  to  the  bridge  itself  is  a  strange,  columnar  group  of  rocks, 
which  at  its  overhanging  crest  assumes,  to  a  facile  imagination,  the  aspect  of  gigantic 
features,  and  bears,  therefore,  the  appellation  of  Profile  Rock.  These  and  other  scenes 
are  within  a  mile  or  two  of  the  village,  where  there  will  be  found  inducements  for  more 
than  ordinary  lingering,  and  still  more  reluctant  leave-taking,  on  the  part  of  the  visitor. 
Those  who  have  enjoyed  the  magnificence  and  varied  charms  of  the  eight-mile  coach  or 
carriage  drive  from  North  Adams  to  the  east  end  of  the  great  Hoosac  Tunnel,  during 
its  long  working,  will  doubtless  almost  lament  that  it  is  now  an  accomplished  fact, 
because  the  splendid  road  across  the  great  Hoosacs  will  now  be  no  more  needed,  and  will 
very  likely  fall  into  disrepair,  thus  spoiling  a  most  unique  and  almost  unparalleled  moun- 
tain-ride. That  road  climbs  the  Hoosacs  by  easy-returning  gradients,  affording  all  the 
way  up,  and  across,  and  down  on  the  east  slope,  marvellously-fine  prospects.  The  west 
mouth  of  the  tunnel  is  only  two  miles  from  North  Adams,  and  lies  amid  the  picturesque 
scenery  of  the  Hoosac  Valley,  and  full  in  front  of  the  monarch  of  the  Berkshire  hills. 

The  Hoosac  Tunnel  is  a  bold  and  fortunate  feat  of  engineering  skill.  Second  in 
length  only  to  the  famous  Mont-C^nis  Tunnel  under  the  Alps,  it  pierces  the  solid  mica- 
ceous slate  of  the  Hoosac  Range  with  a  grand  artery  nearly  five  miles  in  length,  and  thus 
opens,  after  incredible  toil  and  immense  outlay,  a  railway-passage  between  Boston  and 
the  Hudson  River,  about  ten  miles  shorter  than  any  preexisting  route.  Long  before 
these  pages  have  reached  their  final  numbering,  this  tunnel,  already  open  from  end  to 
end,  will  be  the  scene  of  swift  and  multitudinous  transit  for  passenger  and  freight  trains 
speeding  between  the  Atlantic  and  the   Pacific  Oceans. 

Upon  that  busy  and  tireless  flow  and  ebb  of  life  and  labor,  old  Graylock,  and  his 
compeers  of  the  Taconic  and  Hoosac  Ranges,  will  look  down  as  peacefully  as  they  did 
upon  the  turmoil  and  trouble  and  disaster  with  which  the  western  end  of  the  vast  work 
was  wrought  to  proud  completeness,  adding  something  to  the  physical  and  moral,  if  not 
to  the  natural,  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  Berkshire  hills. 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI,    FROM    ST.    LOUIS    TO    ST. 

ANTHONY'S    FALLS. 

WITH       ILLUSTRATIONS      BY      ALFRED       R.       WAUD. 


Grand-Tower    Rock,    below    St.    Louis. 


T  N  the  description  of  American  scenery  the  Mississippi  River,  as  of  royal  right,  claims 
•*-  a  leading  place.  It  is  our  Nile,  our  mythic  stream,  with  which  are  connected  all  the 
golden-hued  tales  of  the  early  travellers.  Monsters  like  Scylla,  whirlpools  like  Charyb- 
dis,  were  reported  to  lurk  in  its  waters,  eager  to  seize  upon  the  canoes  of  adventurous 
travellers,  and  drag  them  below  its  whelming  flood.  The  voices  of  spirits — messengers 
of  the  awful  Man-i-tou — reverberated  from  bluff  to  bluff,  or  issued  with  grewsome  sound 
from  the  dismal  evergreens  of  its  southern  banks.  The  tribes  that  hunted  on  its  border- 
ing prairies  were  cannibals,  false  in  friendship,  implacable  in  war,  having  the  tomahawk 
ever  brandished,  and  the   arrow-point  poisoned.      But,  if  there  were  these  dreadful  things 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI. 


319 


to  encounter,  there  were  also  prizes  worth  the  winning.  There  were  regions  entirely  of 
flowers,  where  the  foot  crushed  at  every  movement  the  rarest  blossoms ;  there  were 
nooks  inhabited  by  fairy  beings  of  extreme  beauty,  and  prompt  to  form  the  tenderest 
connections  with  the  brave  knights  who  dared  all  dangers  to  seek  them.  These  were, 
like  the  gardens  of  the  enchantress  Armida,  of  supernatural  beauty,  tinted  by  a  purple 
glamour  that  was  akin  to  the  atmosphere  of  Paradise.  The  blooms  never  faded,  the  turf 
never  withered,  the  trees  never  shed  their  leaves,  in  these  bowers  of  enchantment — these 
gracious  climes,  where  all  was  well.  In  the  midst  of  this  happy  land  was  a  golden  foun- 
tain, in  whose  waters  whosoever  bathed  issued  forth  restored  to  his  first  radiant  youth. 
The  wrinkles  upon  the  brow  faded  away ;  the  thin  cheek  became  plump  and  rounded ; 
the  shrunken  limbs  resumed  their  graceful  outlines ;  the  few  gray  locks  that  straggled 
over  the  worn  brow  were  at  once  luxuriant  and  golden,  or  jetty  black,  or  silky  brown. 
Here  was  the  material  paradise,  here  the  rest  so  dear  to  the  wanderer,  here  that  perfect 
calm  which  the  unquiet  heart  seeks  and  shall  find  only  in  heaven.  Whatever  the  spirit 
longed  for  unavailingly  was  said  to  exist  here,  in  the  region  of  the  Michcsepe.  Expe- 
dition after  expedition,  under  Spanish  auspices,  struck  out  from  Florida  to  find  the 
unknown  land,  watched  over  by  ampler,  bluer  skies  than  had  been  known  to  mortals. 
While  De  Soto  discovered  the  river  in  the  south,  the  first  white  men  who  reached 
its    northern    portion    were    two    Frenchmen    from    the    North  —  Father    Marquette    and 


Devil's    Backbone,   below    St.    Louis. 


V 
V 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI.  321 

M.  Joliet,  a  trader ;  and  the  first  who  descended  its  course  from  its  region  of  ice 
to  where  its  waters  swell  the  tropic  wave  was  the  Chevalier  de  la  Salle,  a  man  cast 
in  a  most  heroic  mould.  Father  Marquette  descended  the  Wisconsin  in  June,  1673 ; 
and,  on  the  3d  day  of  July,  his  canoe  floated  on  the  rippling  waves  of  the  great 
river.  It  was  then  truly  virgin.  The  red-men  lived  on  the  prairies  that  here  and 
there  break  through  the  solemn  regularity  of  its  limestone  walls  in  the  northern 
part,  or  in  the  wide  savannas  that  lie  behind  the  densely-wooded  banks  of  its  south- 
ern region.  They  were  by  no  means  uniform  in  character  or  in  degree  of  civiliza- 
tion. Some  not  only  hunted  and  fished,  but  applied  themselves  to  a  rude  agriculture, 
and  spun  a  coarse  cloth,  making  no  trade  of  war,  but  simply  repelling  the  attacks  of 
more  ferocious  neighbors.  There  were  others  who  lived  only  for  battle,  and  whose  glory 
consisted  in  the  number  of  the  scalp-locks  which  adorned  their  wigwams.  Neither  was 
their  speech  uniform.  Besides  the  great  variety  of  dialects  which  follows  necessarily  from 
the  immense  local  changes  of  unwritten  tongues,  there  were  two  great  languages  alto- 
gether dissimilar.  These  things  were  noted  by  the  good  French  priest  as  the  rapid  cur- 
rent bore  him  down  the  stream  ;  but,  unfortunately,  those  who  followed  after  cared 
nothing  for  philology,  and  modern  science  now  deplores  vainly  the  absence  of  data  on 
which  to  found  any  general  conclusions  concerning  the  peoples  of  this  great  region,  who 
have  now  entirely  disappeared.  Their  place  has  been  taken  by  the  thrifty  and  energetic 
pale-faces,  who  have  made  the  Mississippi's  borders  a  long  succession  of  smilipg  fields 
and  cheerful  habitations,  and  who  have  built  up  great  cities,  destined  to  be  in  the  future 
what  Nineveh  and  Babylon  were  to  Asia. 

The  scope  of  this  article  is  confined  (with  the  exception  of  two  illustrations  of 
striking  scenes  below  the  city)  to  the  Upper  Mississippi,  from  St.  Louis  to  the  Falls  of 
St.  Anthony.  It  is  easier  to  describe  the  ascent  of  the  river  than  its  descent,  both  be- 
cause the  traveller  generally  takes  the  steamboat  from  St.  Louis  up  to  St.  Paul,  and 
because  there  is  a  natural  climax  of  beauty  in  the  scenery  in  this  way.  Near  St.  Louis 
the  views,  it  must  be  confessed,  offer  little  that  is  admirable  to  the  gaze.  As  we  ascend 
toward  Keokuk,  the  landscape  becomes  bolder  and  more  striking ;  between  Keokuk  and 
Dubuque  it  still  becomes  more  and  more  grand ;  from  Dubuque  to  Trempealeau  the 
advantages  of  Nature  are  still  more  enhanced;  the  scenery  of  Lake  Pepin  still  strikes  an 
ascending  chord,  until  a  culmination  of  the  beautiful  is  reached  in  the  Falls  of  St.  An- 
thony and  Minnehaha.  It  is  better,  therefore,  to  lead  the  reader  on  from  that  which 
interests  but  slightly  to  things  that  fairly  enchain  and  enchant,  than  to  commence  with 
the  beautiful  and  simmer  slowly  down  into  the  absolutely  prosaic.  We  will,  therefore, 
begin  with  St.  Louis  (with  a  glance  or  two  at  the  high  bluffs  that  are  found  below  the 
city),  premising  that  the  pilots  consider  this  city  the  termination  of  the  Upper  Missis- 
sippi, the  region  between   St.  Louis  and  New  Orleans  constituting  the  lower  river.     The 

city  of  St.  Louis  disputes  with  Chicago  the  title  of  Metropolis  of  the  West.     But,  unlike 

112 


TAe  ^/i/'iaA'r- 


SCENES     IN     ST.     LOUIS. 


324  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

its  great  rival,  its  history  dates  back  to  an  early  period  in  American  history.  It  was 
settled  in  1762,  by  the  French;  in  1764  its  inhabitants  numbered  one  hundred  and 
twenty  all  told,  while  its  population  to-day  is  believed  to  be  nearly  three  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand.  The  city  is  situated  on  the  west  bank  of  the  river,  on  a  bluff  elevated 
above  the  floods  of  the  stream.  It  is  built  on  two  terraces,  the  first,  or  lower,  rising 
abruptly  about  twenty  feet  from  the  river,  and  the  second  making  a  more  gradual  ascent 
of  forty  feet  from  the  lower,  and  spreading  out  into  a  wide  and  beautiful  plain.  The 
corporate  limits  of  the  city  extend  over  six  miles  along  the  river,  and  from  three  to 
four  miles  back  of  it.  The  older  streets  are  narrow,  but  the  new  avenues  are  wide,  and 
those  in  the  resident  portions  lined  with  elegant  mansions.  The  public  buildings  are 
imposing,  the  warehouses  handsome,  the  public  parks  singularly  beautiful.  Among  the 
famous  places  are  Shaw's  Garden,  with  an  extensive  botanical  garden  and  conservatory, 
and  the  Fair-Grounds.  The  Fair-Grounds  are  made  the  object  of  special  care  and  culti- 
vation, supplying  in  a  measure  the  want  of  a  large  public  park.  With  an  amphitheatre 
capable  of  seating  twenty  thousand  persons,  an  area  of  over  forty  acres,  filled  with  choice 
shrubbery,  artificial  lakes,  fountains,  rustic  bovvers,  and  numerous  handsome  structures  for 
the  exhibition  of  goods,  it  is  one  of  the  institutions  of  which  St.  Louis  is  justly  proud. 
Shaw's  Gardens  are  a  munificent  gift  by  a  wealthy  citizen  to  the  public.  Here  is  gath- 
ered every  variety  of  tree,  shrub,  and  plant,  that  can  be  grown  in  this  country  by  natural 
or  artificial  means.  St.  Louis  is  destined  for  a  great  future.  The  magnificent  bridge  just 
completed,  one  of  the  largest  and  handsomest  in  the  world,  over  which  all  the  trains 
from  the  East  directly  enter  the  city,  will  have  a  great  effect  upon  its  fortunes.  One 
distinguishing  feature  of  the  city  is  the  number  of  huge  steamboats  that  line  its  levee ; 
but  this  feature  is  scarcely  so  notable  now  as  it  was  a  generation  ago,  before  railroads 
had  competed  with  steamboats  for  freight  and  passenger  traffic.  The  steamers  of  the 
largest  class  descend  the  river  to  New  Orleans ;  smaller  ones  of  light  draught  ascend 
the  Missouri  almost  to  the  mountains,  and  the  Mississippi  to  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony. 
Taking  our  passage-tickets  on  one  of  the  handsomely-fitted  steamers  that  ply  between 
St.  Louis  and  St.  Paul  for  at  least  seven  months  in  the  year,  the  upper  river  being 
closed  from  the  middle  of  November  to  the  middle  of  April  by  ice,  we  turn  our  backs 
upon  St.  Louis,  its  shot-towers  and  elevators,  its  high  church-spires,  and  the  magnificent 
cupola  of  its  capitol.  The  banks  are  low  on  each  side — rather  higher  on  the  west — and 
of  a  sandy  brown.  The  aspects  are  by  no  means  picturesque,  and  the  junction  of  the 
Missouri  and  the  Mississippi  is  not  accompanied  by  any  features  of  striking  beauty. 
The  city  of  Alton,  about  three  miles  above  this  junction,  is  perched  upon  a  grand  lime- 
stone-bluff, nearly  two  hundred  feet  high,  and  of  a  uniform  light-brown  color.  There  is 
a  tradition  that  there  were  Indian  paintings  here,  but  they  have  disappeared,  if  they  ever 
existed.  One  notices  here  that  the  water  is  much  bluer  than  it  was  at  St.  Louis,  and 
that   the   islands  which    everywhere    dot    the    broad    current    have   a    look  of  greater   age. 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI. 


325 


Those  below  seem  to  have  formed  themselves  within  a  few  months,  and  the  hasty  vege- 
tation on  them  confirms  the  impression.  But  here  we  have  the  common  willow,  and 
occasionally  the  maple,  both  growing  to  a  respectable  height. 

As  we  proceed   upward,  the  bluffs  become  more  numerous,  and  at  Keokuk  begin  to 
gain    the    appearance    of   a    range    of   hills    with    sloping    ravines    between.      One    might 


Group   ol   Islets. 


imagine  that  the  country  in  the  rear  was  of  the  level  of  the  river,  or  nearly  so ;  but  it 
is  not  so,  for  the  tops  of  the  bluffs  are  on  a  line  with  the  prairie-land  beyond.  The  city 
of  Keokuk  is  on  the  western  bank,  in  the  State  of  Iowa  ;  and  the  city  of  Warsaw,  in 
Illinois,  is  opposite  to  it.  Close  to  Warsaw  the  Desmoines  River  falls  into  the  Missis- 
sippi, forming  what  are  known  as  the  Desmoines  Rapids.      It    is    only  in  the  fall  of  the 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI. 


327 


year  that  these  are  perceptible,  and  at  that  season  they  offer  some  hinderance  to  freight- 
boats,  but  the  packet-steamers  pass  through  the  troubled  waters  without  the  least  diffi- 
culty. The  scenery  at  this  point  begins  to  give  a  promise  of  what  awaits  the  tourist 
higher  up.  The  stream  is  of  a  deep-blue  color,  or  rather  appears  so  from  contrast  with 
the  limestone-bluffs  on  each  side.  The  islands  begin  to  be  more  and  more  numerous. 
Sometimes  there  are  clusters  of  islets,  only  a  few  rods  in  extent,  close  to  the  bank — 
forming,  as  it  were,  a  little  archipelago.  The  stream,  in  these  sequestered  nooks,  loses 
the  steady  strength'  of  its  current,  and  seems  to  linger  with  fondness  amid  the  pleasing 
scenes.      The  edges  of  the  isles  are  fringed  with  broad-leaved  rushes,  and   often  with    the 


Old  Arsenal,    Rock    Island. 


purple  iris.  Lilies  spread  their  broad,  green  pads  over  the  smooth  water,  presenting  every 
variety  of  blossom,  fully  opened,  half  opened,  just  opening,  and  simply  in  the  bud.  There 
are  also  the  bright-yellow  flowers  of  the  water-bean.  In  such  spots  as  this  the  trees  upon 
the  islands  attain  quite  a  respectable  growth,  the  cotton-woods  especially  becoming  very 
tall.  Nearest  the  water's  edge  one  sees  generally  willows  and  scrub-oak,  the  latter  grow- 
ing very  thick  and  bushy.  There  is  generally,  at  the  extremity  of  the  islands,  a  long 
spot  of  clear,  white  sand,  which  will  grow  into  other  islands  if  the  current  does  not 
wash  it  away,  which,  however,  it  is  sure  to  do  sooner  or  later.  Few  can  be  consid- 
ered  permanent  ;    some   only  flourish   for  a  few  brief  years,  and    then    are    washed    away ; 


328 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


but  there  are  others,  which  have  been  formed  near  the  shore,  which  become  protected 
by  sand-bars,  and  flourish  exceedingly,  until  some  sudden  thaw  in  the  spring  sends 
down    an    avalanche    of   floating    ice,    and    whelms    them    utterly. 

Leaving  behind  Keokuk, 
the  steamer  resumes  its  glid- 
ing motion  over  the  gentle 
Mississippi,  and  the  never- 
ending  panorama  of  water, 
islands,  and  bluffs,  recom- 
mences. About  seventy  miles 
higher  up,  the  Iowa  River 
joins  the  stream,  coming  in 
on  the  left  hand.  Fifty  miles 
of  the  same  identical  scenery, 
without  a  change,  brings  the 
traveller  to  one  of  the  few 
features  of  this  part  of  the 
river.  Most  of  the  islands  in 
the  Mississippi  are  temporary 
formations  of  sand  ;  in  fact, 
there  are  but  three  of  rock ; 
and  we  have  now  come  to 
the  largest  and  the  most  im- 
portant, named  Rock  Island. 
It  is  three  miles  long,  and 
has  an  area  of  nearly  a  thou- 
sand acres,  the  greater  part  of 
which  is  cleared,  the  rest  being 
covered  with  fine  forest-trees. 
The  soil  is,  of  course,  lime- 
stone, and  has  been  utilized  for 
building  government  fortifica- 
tions and  arsenals  of  quite  a 
formidable  character.  The  old 
arsenal,  of  which  a  sketch  is 
presented,  was  at  one  time  the 
headquarters  of  the  famous  General  Scott  during  the  Black-Hawk  War.  This  has  long 
been  abandoned,  and  has  been  replaced  by  limestone  structures  of  the  most  enduring 
character ;   for  here  the  United  States  has  its  armory  headquarters,  and   the  whole    island 


Forrest-Roads,    Rock   Island. 


113 


330  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

has  been  developed,  until  it  resembles,  in  the  beauty  of  its  drives  and  its  military  build- 
ings, the  station  of  West  Point,  on  the  Hudson,  where  the  great  military  school  of  the 
nation  is  quartered.  On  the  eastern  bank,  in  Illinois,  is  the  city  of  Rock  Island.  Op- 
posite to  it,  on  the  other  shore,  is  the  city  of  Davenport,  in  the  State  of  Iowa.  These 
are  both  connected  with  the  island  by  bridges,  through  which  steamers  pass  by  means 
of  draws.  These  bridges  were  the  first  that  spanned  the  Mississippi,  and  they  met  in- 
tense opposition  from  the  steamboat-men,  who  hired  gangs  of  desperadoes  to  burn  them 
down  as  fast  as  the  workmen  erected  them.  But  at  last  the  cause  of  order  triumphed, 
and  the  river-men  consented  to  an  act  which  they  declared  would  forever  ruin  the  com- 
merce of  the  river.  A  candid  and  impartial  mind  will  be  forced  to  admit  that  the 
steamboat-party  were  not  altogether  in  the  wrong,  for  Nature  here  has  done  so  much  to 
obstruct  navigation  by  rapids  that  the  draw-bridges  were  really  like  putting  the  last  straw 
on  the  camel's  back.  So  powerful  are  the  rapids  here  that  in  the  fall  freight-boats  are 
sometimes  prevented  altogether  from  ascending,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  that  there  might  be 
seasons  of  water  when  a  very  little  thing,  such  as  the  draw-bridges,  would  be  sufficient 
to  turn  the  scale  against  the  boats.  The  passenger-packets  feel  the  difficulty,  but  in  a 
far  less  degree.  It  cannot  be  doubted  that,  within  a  few  years,  the  railways  will  be  com- 
pelled to  pattern  after  the  great  St.-Louis  Bridge  invented  by  Captain  James  Eads,  in 
which  spans  of  cast-steel  give  an  uninterrupted  opening  of  over  five  hundred  feet. 

From  the  moment  that  we  strike  the  rapids,  we  begin  to  notice  a  change  in  the 
bluffs.  They  are  less  hilly  than  heretofore,  and  they  begin  to  become  more  like  Cyclo- 
pean walls ;  their  height,  also,  is  greatly  increased,  and  they  are  much  lighter  in  color. 
The  first  effect  upon  the  mind  is  unquestionably  grand.  The  enormous  masses  of  stone, 
which  in  their  stratification  resemble  masonry,  cannot  but  deeply  impress  the  beholder. 
One  marvels  at  the  extraordinary  regularity  of  the  lines,  and  the  conclusion  comes 
upon  one  with  irresistible  force  that  there  was  a  time  when  the  water  was  on  a  level 
with  these  walls,  three  hundred  feet  high,  and  that  the  regular  action  of  the  river  has 
exposed  their  strata  with  this  seemingly  strange  uniformity.  The  Mississippi  must  be 
here  about  two  miles  wide,  and  is  full  of  islands,  which  present  every  variety  of  form  in 
their  masses  of  vegetation.  The  water,  on  a  fine  summer's  day,  is  perfectly  clear,  per- 
fectly smooth,  and  all  the  indentations  in  the  rocks,  every  streak  of  brown  upon  the 
whitish-gray  sides,  every  boss  protruding,  every  tuft  of  grass  that  has  gained  footing, 
every  bush  upon  the  slope  at  the  base,  every  tree  on  the  summit,  are  pictured  in  the 
cool  shadows  with  undeviating  fidelity.  There  is  a  mingling  of  the  ideas  of  grandeur 
with  those  of  rest  and  peace  and  happiness,  which  is  inexpressibly  pleasant ;  and  there 
are  few  things  in  life  more  agreeable  than  to  sit  on  the  upper  deck  and  watch  the 
panorama  that  the  river  offers.  Everywhere  one  gets  delicious  effects,  specially  where  a 
curve  in  the  river  brings  the  trees  of  the  islands  sharply  against  the  light  background 
of  the  bluffs,  or  where   the    limestone-walls,  receding,  leave  the  islands  in  the  centre,  and 


332 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


the  tops  of  the  cotton-woods  are  defined  upon  the  blue  sky.  Nature  harmonizes  her 
blues  and  greens,  if  artists  cannot.  Then,  it  is  pleasant  to  watch  the  working  of  her 
general  law  in  the  hills  themselves.  Sometimes,  indeed,  we  see  bluffs  unsupported ;  but 
almost  invariably  there  is  a  noble,  perpendicular  wall  for  two-thirds  of  the  descent,  and  a 
great,  sloping  buttress  of  fragments  for  the  remainder.     It  is  on  the  latter  that  vegetation 

thrives,  though  here  and 
there  we  come  to  long 
stretches  of  bluffs  that 
are  made  reddish  brown 
in  color  by  a  covering 
of  minute   lichen. 

As  we  approach 
Dubuque,  three  hundred 
and  sixty  miles  from  St. 
Louis,  the  rocks  begin 
to  be  castellated,  and. 
probably  from  some  soft- 
ness in  the  limestone, 
to  be  worn  into  varied 
shapes.  But  the  full  ex- 
tent of  this  peculiarity 
is  not  seen  until  one 
passes  Dubuque.  Below 
that  point  the  change  is 
mostly  manifested  in  the 
appearance  of  broad 
ledges  at  the  top,  that 
look  like  cornices,  and 
in  an  occasional  frag- 
ment of  perpendicular 
structure,  to  •  both  of 
which  forms  waving 
weeds  and  the  long  ten- 
drils of  wild-vines  add  a  peculiar  grace.  At  Dubuque  the  bluffs  are  nearly  three  hun- 
dred feet  high,  but  they  do  not  come  sheer  down  to  the  water's  edge,  as  at  Alton,  nor 
is  there  a  long,  sloping  buttress ;  but  at  the  base  there  is  a  broad  level,  about  sixteen 
feet  above  the  Mississippi.  On  this  plateau  are  all  the  business-houses,  the  hotels,  and 
the  factories.  Above,  connected  with  paths  that  have  been  cut  through  the  solid  lime- 
stone, are  the  streets  of  the  dwelling-houses. 


A    Cross-Street    in    Dubuque. 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI. 


333 


The  approaches  to  these  upper  houses  are  mostly  by  stairs  that  might  easily  be  called 
ladders,  without  exposing  one  to  a  charge  of  being  sarcastic ;  but  it  is  worth  the  trouble 
of  mounting  these  ladders  a  few  times  every  day,  to  have  such  a  landscape  unrolled  before 
the  eye.  There  is  a  stretch  of  bare,  sandy  island  in  the  centre  of  the  river,  across  which 
comes  the  railway-bridge  of  the  Illinois  Central  Railroad.  There  is,  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  island,  a  large  shot-factory,  and  close  to  it  the  shot-tower,  which  darts  up  into 
the  blue  sky  like  a  light  flame.  Beyond  rise  the  bluffs  of  the  eastern  shore,  which  here 
are  very  hilly,  and  present  beautiful  contrasts  of  green  verdure  with  glaring  white.  The 
tops  of  many  are  quite  covered  with  a  dense  vegetation.      Far    beyond   rolls  the  dreamy 


Eagle    Point,    near    Dubuque. 


prairie,  melting  in  the  distance  into  the  sky,  which,  blue  above,  becomes  paler  and  paler 
as  it  nears  the  horizon,  until  it  is  an  absolute  gray.  This  is  the  outward  look.  The 
mward  has  plenty  of  quaint  effects.  There  is  an  absolute  confusion  of  lines.  Here  is  a 
wall,  there  a  stairway.  Above  that  wall  is  a  house,  with  more  stairways.  Then  comes 
another  wall,  and  perhaps  another  house,  or  a  castellated  mass  of  limestone,  overlooking 
the  architectural  muddle.  It  is  as  quaint  as  any  of  the  scenes  in  the  old  cities  of  Lom- 
bardy  upon  the  slopes  of  the  mountains,  among  the  terraces  cultivated  with  the  grape, 
the  olive,  and  the  fig. 

Just    beyond    Dubuque  we  come  upon  one   of  the    landmarks    of  the    pilots    of  the 


334 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


upper  river — Eagle  Point,  a  splendid  bluff,  some  five  hundred  feet  high.  The  railroad 
from  Dubuque  to  St.  Paul  runs  upon  the  western  side  here,  and  continues  to  do  so  until 
it  crosses  at  Hastings,  a  long  way  north.  It  runs  at  the  base  of  the  bluffs,  and  com- 
mands the  picturesque  points  almost  as  well  as  the  steamer.  At  this  point  the  bluffs  are 
unusually  high  and  massive,  presenting  often  another  variety  of  mountain-form,  in  which 
the  summit  rolls  down,  as  it  were,  and  the  perpendicular  walls  beneath  seem  like  a  short 
column  supporting  a  monstrous  dome.  Eagle  Point  is  not  of  this  kind,  however ;  but 
the  sloping  portion  blends  so  gradually  with  the  perpendicular  that,  to  the  eye,  it 
seems    one    enormous  wall,  descending  from  the  forest  above  to  the  water  beneath.     The 


Buena   Vista. 


trees  here  attain  a  large  size,  and  dot  the  champaign  country  that  stretches  far  away  on 
every  side.  Sometimes  the  cliffs  have  been  so  changed  by  the  action  of  water  as  to  pro- 
duce those  colossal  sloping  banks  which  are  called  "  downs "  in  England,  where  not  a 
particle  of  the  limestone  is  visible,  the  whole  being  covered  with  a  rich  mantle  of  green. 
The  effect  of  these  downs  is  peculiarly  pleasing  in  sudden  turns  of  the  river,  when  in  the 
distance  a  portion  of  the  Mississippi  seems  to  be  isolated,  and  fancy  cheats  us  with  the 
belief  that  the  broad,  gleaming  sheet  is  the  commencement  of  a  romantic  lake  among 
the  hills.  Then  these  great  roofs  of  green  become  a  most  exquisite  background,  more 
especially  when    the    landscape    is    tamed    down    by  a  thin,  silvery  mist.      Perhaps  one  of 


THE    UPPER  -MISSISSIPPI. 


335 


the  causes  of  this  lake-like 
appearance  is  the  compara- 
tive freedom  of  this  part  of 
the  Mississippi  from  islands. 
There  are  small  dots  of 
green,  willowy  land  here 
and  there,  but  not  in  such 
numbers  or  proportions  as 
to  contract  the  view  of 
large  expanses  of  water. 
Right  in  the  centre  of  this 
beautiful  region  is  the  lit- 
tle village  of  Buena  Vista, 
which  owes  its  name,  and 
indeed  its  existence,  to  the 
appreciative  taste  of  a  West- 
erner who  fixed  his  house- 
hold-gods here  in  the  centre 
of  all  that  was  lovely  in 
Nature.  The  place  is  well 
known  to  pilots,  because  in 
the  vicinity  there  is  an  out- 
cropping of  lower  Silurian, 
which  resembles  exactly  ru- 
ins of  some  gigantic  struct- 
ure. It  is  not  precisely  an 
outcropping,  because  it  has 
become  visible  by  the  wash- 
ing away,  of  the  soil  that 
concealed  it.  There  is  at  its 
base  an  indescribable  mass 
of  fragments,  round  which 
creepers  and  wild-vines  have 
twined  themselves  in  pictu- 
resque confusion,  and  on 
each  side  of  it  the  forest- 
trees  grow  in  the  greatest 
luxuriance.  The  ravines  on 
each     side     are     broad     and 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI. 


337 


picturesque,  but  give  no  idea   or   suggestion    of   what   the    bluff  was    before    it    crumbled 
away,  leaving,  as  it  were,  its  skeleton  visible. 

The  mouth  of  the  Wisconsin  is  broad,  but  the  water  is  shallow,  and  the  channel  is 
obstructed  by  sand-bars,  covered  with  rank  vegetation.  The  bluffs  here,  on  the  opposite 
side,  are  covered  with  trees,  and,  both  in  their  contour  and  general  appearance,  remind 
one  very  much  of  the  hills  along  the  western  branch  of  the  Susquehanna.  On  the  west- 
ern side  we  are  still  in  the   State   of   Iowa    but  the    eastern    shore  belongs  to  Wisconsin, 


Three    Miles   above    La   Crosse. 


one  of  the  great  wheat-raising  regions.  All  along  the  line  of  the  river  here,  the  towns 
have  something  to  do  with  the  traffic  in  cereals,  but  most  of  it  is  becoming  concentrated 
in  Dubuque.  Somehow,  whether  it  is  imagination  or  not  can  scarcely  be  analyzed,  but 
the  air  here  seems  purer  and  more  bracing  than  it  did  below,  yet  the  sun's  rays  are  im- 
mensely powerful.  The  bluffs,  that  are  directly  exposed  to  the  full  force  of  the  summer 
sun,  are  bare  of  vegetation  as  the  palm  of  one's  hand — masses  of  white  rock.  But, 
wherever  a  curve  gives  a  shelter  to  vegetation,  the  trees  spring   up  joyously  to  the    blue 

114 


338 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


air,  and  the  wild-vines  hang  their  festoons  around  the  fantastic  spires  and  jutting  cornices 
of  the  Hmestone.  This  is,  in  sober  truth,  an  exquisite  part  of  the  river,  from  the  greater 
variety  of  the  scenery,  the  wooded  hills,  and  the  exquisitely  pure  character  of  the  water, 
which  is  clear  and  limpid  as  that  of  Lake  Leman.  The  bluffs  alternate  from  massive, 
deeply-wooded  hills  to  long  walls  of  limestone,  with  bases  and  huge  cornices  and  bartizan 
towers,  deep  crypts,  and  isolated  chimneys.  Often,  from  the  deep  heart  of  the  oaks  and 
maples  crowning  a  majestic  bluff,  starts  up  a  skeleton  splinter  of  bare  lime,  white  as  ala- 
baster, in  the  pure  air,  a  little  reminder  that  the  hill  had  been  much  higher.  Sometimes 
it  will  not  be  a  pinnacle,  but  a   regular  series  of  towers  or  donjon-keeps,  with  wild-vine 


Queen's    Bluff,    below   Trempealeau. 


banners  waving  from  the  outer  ramparts.  In  other  places,  the  summits  will  be  entirely 
denuded  of  timber,  but  will  be  covered  with  a  bright  mantle  of  emerald  turf  In  the 
ravines  between,  the  trees  are  low,  thick,  and  bushy,  the  very  place  for  the  covert 
of  a  deer,  and  one  watches  instinctively  to  see  some  motion  in  the  leafy  shade,  and  to 
detect  the  brown  antlers  of  some  leader  of  the  herd.  In  the  midst  of  these  wonders 
there  comes  a  break,  where  a  little  river  pours  its  waters  into  the  Father  of  Streams. 
A  smiling  prairie,  level  as  a  billiard-table,  is  spread  on  each  side  of  the  mouth  for  sev- 
eral miles.  Here  is  .the  town  of  La  Crosse,  built  upon  the  prairie  where  all  the  Indian 
tribes,  for    hundreds    of  miles    around,  used    to    have    their  great   ball-playing,  that   game 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI. 


339 


which  the  French  travellers 
called  "  la  crosse,"  and  which 
has  given  its  name  to  this 
stirring  city,  bustling  with 
manufactures,  and  noisy  with 
the  screams  of  locomotives. 
And  still  we  are  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  river,  and 
still  in  the  State  of  Wis- 
consin ;  the  opposite  shore 
is  in  Minnesota,  also  a  great 
grain  and  lumber  mart. 
Here  we  begin  to  see  big 
rafts  coming  down  the 
stream,  with  often  twelve 
men  tugging  away  at  the 
clumsy,  huge  oars,  battling 
against  the  swift  current. 
Above  La  Crosse,  the  val- 
ley of  the  Mississippi  widens 
considerably,  and  the  hills 
recede,  leaving  long  slopes 
of  upland,  covered  with  no- 
ble trees.  The  river  is  per- 
fectly studded  with  islands  ; 
in  fact,  one  is  never  out  of 
sight  of  them.  They  are  all 
low,  composed  of  alluvial 
soil,  washings  from  the 
banks,  and  are  covered  with 
a  dense  growth  of  shrub- 
oak,  from  which  occasional 
cotton  -  woods  soar  up  to 
considerable  height.  Some- 
times they  are  in  the  cen- 
tre, sometimes  they  fringe 
the  banks  ;  but,  in  every 
position,  they  add  greatly 
to    the    beautv  of  the  scene. 


340 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


< 


The  bluffs  here  are,  in  many 
cases,  over  six  hundred  feet 
high,  and  of  varied  shapes, 
the  pyramidal  beginning  to 
appear  with  persistent  recur- 
rence. 

Queen's  Bluff,  a  fragmen- 
tary pyramidal  bluff,  is  one 
of  the  landmarks  by  which 
the  pilots  know  that  they  are 
approaching  the  fairy  region 
of  Trempealeau.  Queen's 
Bluff  has  not  only  been  cleft 
in  twain  by  the  greater  Mis- 
sissippi of  the  past,  but  its 
face  has  been  scooped  out  by 
the  winds,  and  Nature  has 
kindly  filled  up  the  gloomy 
void  with  fine  trees.  Its 
southern  side  is  exposed  di- 
rectly to  the  noonday  sun, 
and  is  a  bare,  precipitous 
mass  of  glaring  white,  with- 
out so  much  as  a  blade  of 
grass  to  shade  it  from  the  sun's 
fierce  kisses.  There  are  great 
cracks  in  it,  which  are  posi- 
tively blue  in  shadow,  from 
the  intensity  of  the  glare. 

The  steamboat  glides  on- 
ward over  the  glassy  tide,  and 
nears  rapidly  one  of  the  three 
rocky  islands  of  the  Missis- 
sippi. The  first  was  at  Rock 
Island,  the  second  is  here  at 
Trempealeau,  about  eighteen 
miles  above  La  Crosse.  It 
is  sometimes  called  Moun- 
tain    Island,     for     its     rocky 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI. 


341 


height  attains  in  one  part  an  altitude  of  five  hundred  and  sixty  feet.  But  the 
name  which  the  French  voyageurs  gave  it  is  so  poetical  that  it  would  be  a  sin 
to  change  it.  It  rises  sheer  out  of  the  water  in  the  centre  of  the  channel,  and  the 
French  called  it  "  Mont  qui  trempe  a  I'eau "  (Mountain  which  dips  in  the  Water). 
Nothing  can  be  conceived  rhore  beautiful  than  the  approach  to  this  most  romantic  and 
picturesque  spot,  which,  in  the  writer's  opinion,  exceeds  in  positive  beauty  the  far-famed 
scenery  of  Lake  Pepin,  twenty-five  miles  up  the  river.     The  river  lies  like  a  lake  in  the 


Trempealeau   Island. 


bosom  of  the  hills,  which  are  so  varied  in  beauty  that  they  defy  description.  They  do  not 
present  an  amphitheatre  of  peaks,  but  are  rather  like  an  edging  or  the  setting  of  emer- 
alds around  a  diamond.  Their  forms  offer  every  possible  combination  of  picturesque 
lines,  every  known  conformation  of  limestone-rocks,  blended  with  ever-changing  hues  of 
green,  from  the  deep  tints  of  evergreens  to  the  bright  emerald  of  grassy  plains.  The 
river  seems  to  sleep  below,  its  placid  surface  giving  back  all  the  glorious  beauty  of  its 
environing.     The   locomotive   creeps   at   the   base   of  the   great  bluffs,  as   if  conscious   of 


342 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Chimney   Rock,    near   Fountain   City. 


intrusion,  and  emits  its  whistle  in  a  plaintive,  deprecatory  manner,  that  the  hills  echo 
and  reecho  with  increasing  pathos.  The  islets  that  nestle  around  the  huge  form  of  Trem- 
pealeau are  mostly  covered  with  sedge-crashes,  waving  with  the  slightest  puff  of  air.  The 
mountain  is  by  no  means  bare.  There  are  parts  which  are  covered  by  thick  forests, 
growing  with  the  greatest  luxuriance  on  the  steep  ascent  ;  and  there  are  spaces  where 
nothing  but  the  barren  rock  is  seen,  with  all  its  huge  stratification  exposed  to  view. 
Spots  of  the  barren  rock  are  covered  with  a  minute  lichen,  which  gives  to  the  limestone 
a  warm,  rich  effect,  like  red  sandstone  ;  in  other  spots  it  is  dazzling  white,  like  marble. 
There  is  a  winding  path  up  Trempealeau   for    those    who    care    to    make  the  ascent,  and, 


.  i 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI. 


343 


in  autumn,  the  sides  of  this  road  are  lined  with  berry-bushes.  Nothing  is  more  sugges- 
tive in  the  distance  than  this  same  winding  foot-way,  especially  when  behind  it  a  golden- 
edged  cloud  of  cumulus  formation  is  slowly  sailing  by ;  then  it  seems  a  path  to  El 
Dorado,  to  the  cities  of  elf-land,  where,  in  silence,  await  the  bold  adventurer,  beauteous 
maidens,  in  fountained  courts,  rich  with  the  perfume  of  celestial  flowers,  and  where  birds 
sing  strains  of  a  sweetness  never  heard  from  mortal  instrument,  but  akin  to  those  divine 
airs  that  flit  through  the  brain,  as  pitilessly  beyond  the  grasp  as  the  golden-cornered 
cloud  itself.  Trempealeau  is  a  study  for  the  painter,  a  theme  for  the  poet,  a  problem 
for  the  geologist,  a  clew  for  the  historian.  Whosoever  will  study  it  with  his  soul  rather 
than  his  wit  shall  not  fail  of  exceeding  great  reward. 

It  is  hard  to  say  under  what  aspect  Trempealeau  looks  the  best — whether  from  the 
distance  below,  or  from  a  nestling- place  in  the  islets  at  its  feet,  or  from  the  village  of 
Trempealeau,  five  miles  above.  This  little  place  ought  to  be  visited  by  every  painter 
and  poet  in  America,  and  should  become  the  headquarters  of  every  one  who  laves  the 
scenery  of  his  country,  during  the  summer  months.  It  is  a  grief  that  Americans  should 
wander  off  to  the  Rhine  and  the  Danube  when,  in  the  Mississippi,  they  have  countless 
Rhines  and  many  Danubes.  What  does  it  matter  if  every  peak  along  the  former  has 
the  dismantled  walls  of  some  robber-baron's  den  .?  Is  Drachenfels  one  whit  more  castel- 
lated than  any  of  the  nameless  bluffs  about  and  around  Trempealeau  .?  All  that  is  beau- 
tiful in    lake-scenery,  in    lower    mountain-scenery,  in    river-scenery,  is  garnered  here.  -  The 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI. 


345 


great  trees  that  line  the  bases  of  Trempealeau  are  worthy  of  the  Titan  that  has  nour- 
ished them,  and  develop  such  trunks,  such  branches,  as  do  the  eyes  good  to  see.  The 
little  isles  crouch  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain-island  as  if  seeking  protection  from  the 
rush  of  the  spring  waters  or  the  live  bolt  of  the  storm.  They  are  of  every  shape,  and 
the  combinations  of  their  trees  and  their   sedgy  banks    offer    a    thousand  hints  of   beauty 


Limestone   Natural    Walls,    below    St.    Paul. 


and  suggestions  of  romance  to  the  intelligent  glance  that  takes  them  in.  Sometimes  the 
cotton-trees  clump  themselves  as  in  a  park  ;  anon,  by  a  few  strokes  of  the  oar,  and  in 
a  trice,  one  gazes  at  a  vista  of  branches  through  which,  obscurely  in  the  distance,  one 
sees  through  the  tremulous  summer  a  great  broad  flank  of  darkened  limestone.  And  the 
clear,  limpid  water  that  glides  around  them,  and  that  laves    the  rocky  sides  of  the  grand 

115 


346 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Trempealeau,  gleams  with  such  brightness,  and  glows  so  under  the  sunlight,  and  sleeps  in 
silvery  lengths  under  the  moonlight,  that  one  cannot  but  love  it.  In  the  distance,  look- 
ing back  regretfully  from  the  village  of  Trempealeau,  every  cape  and  headland  is  softened, 
and  the  green  hues  of  the  forest-clad  sides  become  a  warmish  gray,  verging  in  blue.  The 
little  isles  appear  like  dots  of  trees,  springing  up  out  of  the  silvery  wave  that  spreads  itself 
out  in  a  dazzling  sheet  of  reflected  sunshine.  And,  if  any  one,  after  seeing  these  things, 
shall  pine  for  the  castled  crags  of  the  Rhine,  let  him  come  and  survey  Chimney  Rock, 
near  Fountain  City,  some  twenty-five  miles  higher  up.  It  is  true  that  the  hand  of  man 
never   wrought    at    these    things,  but,  for  all   that,  it    is    the    precise    image    of   Chepstow 


x^- 


AX  ^ 


WS^^I^ 


Near    St.    Paul. 


Keep,  in  "  merrie  England,"  and  is,  to  all  intents  and  ..purposes,  as  much  a  castle  as  any 
ruin  of  the  German  river.  The  spectator  who  views  this  peculiar  mass  of  limestone 
from  above  the  river  will  fail  to  see  why  it  received  its  name.  But,  from  below, 
and  passing  abreast,  one  observes  that  the  extreme  mass  on  the  right  hand  is  altogether 
detached,  and  presents  a  very  striking  resemblance  to  the  enormous  stone  chimneys 
which  are  built  up  oiitside  the  houses  in  Virginia.  The  castle  rises  from  a  dense  growth 
of  trees,  mostly  of  maples,  and  at  the  base  of  the  bluff  there  is  a  sort  of  natural  terrace, 
very  broad  and  even,  which  is  free  from  vegetation  of  any  kind,  and  looks  not  unlike 
the  terrace  of  a  proud    palatine  home.      Below   this   is   an    accumulation    of  soil,   washed 


THE     UPPER    MISSISSIPPI.  347 

down  by  the  river  in  spring  tides,  which  has  offered  a  resting-place  to  wandering  seeds. 
These  have  grown  into  a  belt  of  scrub-oak,  very  low  and  very  compact,  forming  a  pleas- 
ant foreground  to  the  scene  above. 

We  now  approach  Lake  Pepin,  the  first  glimpses  of  which  are  truly  charming. 
The  Mississippi  here  swells  into  a  large  expanse  of  water,  in  some  parts  five  miles 
across,  and  this  widening  extends  for  twenty-five  miles.  By  many  this  region  is  consid- 
ered the  finest  that  the  river  affords,  but  most  artists  will  decide  for  the  vicinity  of 
Trempealeau.  The  water  here  is  very  deep,  and,  in  the  summer-time,  is  so  calm,  so 
unruffled,  so  still,  that  one  cannot  discern  with  the  eye  any  appearance  of  a  current.  So 
easily  do  the  side-wheel  steamboats  pass  through  the  water  that  they  seem  to  be  moving 
through  air,  so  gentle  and  equable  are  the  pulsations.  And  it  is  really  an  annoyance  to 
be  passed  by  a  stern  -  wheeler ;  the  great  machine  in  the  rear  tosses  the  water  about  and 
churns  it  into  foam,  destroying  the  serene  impressions  that  had  been  left  upon  the 
mind.  Looking  northward,  on  entering  the  lake,  one  observes  a  high  rocky  point  on 
the  left  shore,  elevating  itself  like  a  sentinel  of  a  fairy  host  guarding  the  entrance  to 
the  enchanted  land.  In  the  mid -distance  another  promontory  of  high  and  menacing 
aspect  juts  out  into  the  lake,  concealing  from  view  the  sweep  of  the  upper  end  of  the 
lake,  which  here  makes  a  bold  curve  to  the  eastward.  A  superb  amphitheatre  of  bluffs 
encloses  the  lake,  many  of  which  have  an  elevation  of  five  hundred  feet.  These  present 
every  variety  of  form,  some  of  them  being  square  masses,  like  the  keep  of  an  old  castle ; 
others  flow  out  in  a  series  of  bosses;  others  are  angular,  others  conical.  Here,  in  one 
direction,  is  a  pyramid,  with  numerous  depressions  and  ravines  mottling  the  white  mass 
with  veins  of  shadow  ;  and  here,  in  another,  is  a  vertical  wall,  with  perfect  mouldings 
of  cornices  and  plinths.  Anon,  steals  into  the  view  a  gently-sloping  mound,  covered 
with  herbage  and  trees.  All  of  these  does  the  delicate-hued  surface  of  the  lake  reflect 
with  perfect  fidelity,  excepting  that  the  light  objects  are  elongated,  and  their  outlines  are 
lost  ;  but  the  dark,  stern  capes  are  given  back  with  scrupulous  exactitude,  line  for  line, 
bush  for  bush,  mass  for  mass. 

This  is  Lake  Pepin  in  a  calm.  But  this  daughter  of  the  hills  is  not  always  in  a 
good-humor,  and,  when  her  waves  are  ruffled  by  the  angry  winds,  she  rages  with  a  fury 
that  is  by  no  means  innocent.  Its  vicinity  to  St.  Paul  makes  it  a  favorite  resort  for 
those  who  are  fond  of  boating,  and  the  surface  in  the  summer  is  often  dotted  with  the 
white  sails  of  miniature  yachts.  These  have  a  hard  time  in  stormy  weather,  for  the 
waves  are  very  high  and  very  short,  and  succeed  each  other  with  a  rapidity  which  makes 
steering  almost  impossible.  Many  a  sailing-boat  has  been  dashed  by  the  mad  waters  right 
into  the  forests  that  here,  in  every  direction,  come  sloping  down  to  the  water's  edge. 
In  all  the  little  villages  nestling  in  the  amphitheatres  of  the  lake,  there  are  stories  of 
such  disasters,  though  they  never  yet  taught  prudence  to  any  one.  The  great  tradition 
of  death  and  sorrow  belongs   to    Maiden's    Rock.     The    tale   of  Winona's  tragical  suicide 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI.  349 

has  been  widely  circulated,  but  it  is  so  much  a  part  of  Lake  Pepin's  attraction  that  it 
cannot  be  passed  over  in  silence.  Winona  was  a  young  girl  of  that  confederacy,  named 
by  itself  Dah-co-tah,  which  the  French  called  Sioux,  but  whose  real  name  is  Tetone. 
She  loved  a  hunter  of  the  same  division  of  the  confederacy,  but  her  parents  wished  her 
to  marry  a  warrior  of  the  Wapesha  division,  and,  by  threats  and  actual  blows,  extorted 
from  her  a  promise  of  compliance.  The  day  before  the  union  she  ascended  a  bluff  of 
great  height,  whose  upper  part  is  a  sheer  precipice,  and  began  chanting  her  death- 
song.  Soon  the  base  was  surrounded  by  the  tribe,  and  all  those  who  possessed  any 
influence  over  the  girl  shouted  to  her  to  descend,  and  that  all  should  be  well.  She 
shook  her  head  in  disbelief,  and,  breaking  off  her  song,  upbraided  them  bitterly,  not  only 
for  wishing  to  marry  her  against  her  will,  but  for  their  folly  in  preferring  the  claims  of 
a  warrior,  who  did  nothing  but  fight,  to  those  of  a  hunter,  who  fed  the  tribe.  Then  she 
continued  her  interrupted  chant,  and  threw  herself,  at  its  conclusion,  from  the  height, 
being  dashed  to  pieces  in  the  great  buttress  of  rocky  debris  below. 

Frontenac  is  in  the  centre  of  the  lake-region,  and  is  left  behind  with  veritable 
regret.  When  we  get  once  more  into  the  river  it  seems  quite  narrow,  though  this 
is  the  effect  of  contrast.  At  Hastings,  the  railroad  which  has  hitherto  faithfully  accom- 
panied us  on  the  left  side  makes  a  change  to  the  other  shore,  just  in  the  region  of  the 
limestone  walls.  These  are  not  very  high,  but  they  produce  a  forcible  impression  by 
their  length  and  regularity.  The  bluffs  rise  over  them  in  great  green  domes,  and  often 
large  trees  crown  their  ledges  ;  but  there  are  spots  where,  for  miles  upon  miles,  these 
walls  stand  alone,  unadorned  by  vegetation — white,  glaring,  and  monotonous.  Still,  there 
is  a  quiet  strength  and  sternness  about  this  formation,  which  impress  some  organizations 
more  forcibly  than  actual  beauty,  and  the  spots  where  these  ramparts  are  partially  cov- 
ered with  great  trailing  wild -vines  are  indeed  highly  picturesque.  The  river-scenery  at 
this  point  is  essentially  lovely.  There  is  a  multiplicity  of  islands,  showing  every  possible 
massing  of  vegetation,  and,  in  many  cases,  the  bluffs  are  quite  low,  and  admit  a  broad 
view  of  woodland  and  prairie.  The  effect  is  park-like,  and,  when  a  powerful  sun  pours 
upon  the  scene  a  flood  of  light,  nothing  more  softly  beautiful  can  be  imagined.  Look- 
ing northward  in  the  distance,  we  obtain  faint  glimpses  of  St.  Paul  ;  but  it  is  impos- 
sible to  get  a  good  view  of  this  picturesque  city  from  the  river.  This  is  the  getting- 
off  place,  the  end  of  navigation  on  the  Mississippi,  and  therefore  every  one  is  sure  of 
being  able  to  go  to  Ball's  Bluff,  or,  better  still,  to  Dayton's  Bluff,  on  the  east  side  of 
St.  Paul,  where,  with  one  sweeping  glance,  the  eye  takes  in  the  city,  its  towers,  and  its 
elevators,  the  railroad-bridges,  the  opposing  rocky  shores,  and  the  graceful  curve  of  the 
river. 

The  chief  attraction,  of  a  picturesque  nature,  in  this  vicinity,  however,  is  not  upon 
the  Mississippi,  but  on  the  little  Minnehaha  Ri^^er,  an  outlet  of  Lake  Minnetonka, 
whose  waters   are   poured    into    the    Minnesota   not    far   from    the  junction    of  that   river 


THE    UPPER    MISSISSIPPI. 


351 


with  the  Mississippi.  The 
famous  falls  here  are  by 
no  means  what  one  would 
imagine  from  the  poem 
of  Longfellow.  There  is 
but  little  water,  yet  what 
there  is  is  more  admirable 
at  its  lowest  than  at  its 
highest  volume.  For  the 
chief  beauty  of  the  fall  is 
in  the  crossing  of  the  deli- 
cate spiral  threads  of  water, 
producing  an  effect  which 
reminds  one  of  fine  lace. 
About  two  hundred  feet  be- 
low there  is  a  bridge,  and, 
as  this  is  only  thirty  feet 
long,  it  will  assist  the  read- 
er in  forming  a  correct  idea 
of  the  proportions  of  this 
somewhat  too  famous  cata- 
ract. The  gorge  is  elliptic 
in  form  from  the  centre  of 
the  falls  to  the  bridge,  and 
quite  narrow  everywhere. 
The  depth  is  about  sixty 
feet.  On  each  side  of  the 
top  of  the  falls  are  numer- 
ous birch-trees,  and  the  sum- 
mits of  the  gorge  crowned 
with  various  forest-trees.  Be- 
low the  bridge,  the  bluffs  or 
banks  on  each  side  cease 
to  be  precipitous,  and  come 
sloping  down  to  the  wa- 
ter's edge,  with  all  their 
trees,  the  branches  of  many 
actually  dipping  into  the 
brink.     The  veil  of  the   fall- 


352  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

ing  water  is  so  thin  that  one  can  see  the  rock  behind  it.  There  is  a  good  path  behind, 
which  even  ladies  can  follow,  except  when  the  wind  blows  directly  opposite,  when  the 
adventurous  traveller  would  get  well  drenched. 

By  rail  from  St.  Paul  to  St.  Anthony,  on  the  Mississippi  River,  the  distance  is  about 
ten  miles,  and  every  pilgrim  in  search  of  the  picturesque  ends  his  journey  here.  Minne- 
apolis is  on  one  side  of  the  river,  and  the  city  of  St.  Anthony  on  the  other.  The  falls 
can  be  seen  with  equal  advantage  from  either  side,  though,  if  one  wants  to  try  both  views, 
the  suspension-bridge  enables  one  to  do  so  with  perfect  ease.  The  rapids  above  the  cata- 
ract are  very  fine,  in  fact  much  finer  than  the  fall  itself,  for  the  river  is  broad  above,  nearly 
seven  hundred  feet  wide,  and,  within  the  last  mile,  makes  a  descent  of  fifty  feet.  As  the 
falls  are  only  eighteen  feet,  they  often  disappoint  the  spectator,  more  especially  as  com- 
merce has  interfered  with  them,  and  converted  them  into  water-power,  second  only  to 
that  of  Rocky  Island  at  Moline.  The  rapids  are  in  reality  splendid,  even  in  the  sum- 
mer-time. The  jostling  waters  heave  up  great  surges  several  feet  high,  from  which  the 
wind  strikes  sheets  of  spray.  In  the  centre  there  is  a  broad,  well-defined  mass  of  water, 
like  a  ridge,  elevated  over  the  stream  on  each  side.  Furious  eddies  boil  and  circle  in 
this  with  a  deep,  gurgling  sound,  and,  when  a  pine-tree  comes  down,  it  goes  under,  and 
comes  shooting  up  into  the  air  hundreds  of  feet  below,  but  with  every  particle  of  bark 
stripped  off,  and  great  splinters  wrenched  from  the  hard  wood  by  the  battling  currents 
underneath.  Just  above  the  fall,  on  the  very  verge,  the  waters  steady  themselves  for  the 
leap,  but,  before  that,  the  waves  cross  and  recross,  and  stagger  with  blind,  furious  haste. 
The  best  view  seems  to  be  from  the  centre  of  the  suspension-bridge,  for  there  you  can 
see  the  grand  rapids,  and  do  not  see  the  dams  and  factories  on  either  side.  Looking  up 
the  falls,  hovv^ever,  you  do  gain  something,  for  you  have  a  full  view  of  the  extraordinary 
piles  of  limestone-slabs  forced  off  by  the  united  action  of  the  currents  and  the  ice.  These 
are  heaped  in  many  places  along  the  shore  with  the  greatest  regularity.  The  slabs  are 
like  the  tops  of  tables,  many  of  them  as  smooth  as  possible,  this  being  the  distinguishing 
characteristic  of  limestone-cleavage.  And,  the  force  of  the  water  being  in  one  direction 
below  the  falls,  the  slabs  are  not  broken  in  the  descent,  but  are  gently  left  by  the  reced- 
ing waves  along  the  shore  in  regular  rotation.  Still,  from  this  point  of  view,  the  dams 
and  other  obstructions  are  too  plainly  in  sight,  and,  though  they  cannot  make  one  forget 
the  immense  volume  of  the  river  that  comes  leaping  onward,  yet  they  do  destroy  all  the 
romance  and  much  of  the  beauty  of  the  water-fall. 


THE    VALLEY     OF    THE     GENESEE 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY   J.    DOUGLAS    WOODWARD. 


npHERE  is  said  to  be 
^      a    mountain-peak    in 
Potter  County,  Pennsylva- 
nia,  Standing   upon    which 
the     observer     may    mark 
the    fountain-head    of   two 
rivers.        Though     flowing 
through     adjacent     gorges, 
their  courses   are   soon    di- 
vided,    the     one     tending 
southward,  while   the    oth- 
er   marks    out    a    winding 
way     to     the     harbor     at 
Charlotte,  there    losing    it- 
self  in    the    waters    of    Lake    Ontario. 
To    follow   down    the    pathway  of  the 
southward-flowing    stream    would    lead 
the    traveller    through    every    variation 
of  climate  and  verdure   that   our  land 
affords — ^now  shadowed   by  the   rugged 
peaks    of   the    Alleghanies,    then    over 
rough    rapids    and    dangerous    shallows,    till    the 
smoky  precincts   of   Pittsburg    are    reached,  with 
the  blending  waters  of  the   Monongahela.      Still 
farther,    and    bearing   west    by    south,    its    course 
leads    through    fruitful    valleys,    and    along    the 
busy  wharves  of  Cincinnati,  Louisville,  and  Cai- 
ro.     Here  the  clear,  fresh  waters   of  the    moun- 
tain-rivulet   are    finally  merged    and    lost    in    the 
expanse  of  the    Mississippi  ;    and,  afloat    on    the 
bosom  of  the    Father    of    Rivers,  we    are   borne 
on    its    sluggish    current    to    the    delta,   and    the 
borders  of  the   Southern  gulf. 

This   tour  of  fancy  ended,  the    river-voyager    retraces    his    path    till    he    stands    again 
upon    the   Northern    summit,  and    girds    himself   for    the    second    and    northward  journey. 

116 


Railroad-Bridge,    Portage. 


354  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

This,  though  short  as  compared  with  his  southward  course,  will  yet  prove  one  of  exceed- 
ing beauty,  and  rich  in  all  those  varied  phases  which  unite  to  form  what  we  call  the 
picturesque.  It  is  to  the  "  beautiful  Genesee "  that  we  now  turn  ;  and,  as  the  valley  that 
bears  its  name,  and  owes  its  richness  to  the  river's  turbulent  moods,  lies  far  to  the  north- 
ward, in  the  limits  of  the  neighboring  Empire  State,  we  hasten  toward  it,  trusting  to  the 
paths  through  which  the  river  first  made  its  way. 

In  its  early  course,  the  Genesee  is  not  marked  by  any  exceptional  beauty  or 
peculiar  charm  of  surroundings.  Nor  is  it  till  the  falls  at  Portage  are  reached  that 
the  river  asserts  its  claim  to  recognition  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  picturesque 
of  all  our  Eastern  streams. 

The  summer  tourist,  if  he  leave  the  car  of  the  Erie  Railway  at  Portage  Village, 
will  be  first  attracted  by  what  is  the  least  picturesque  though  an  important  feature  in  the 
foreground  ;  and  that  is  the  great  bridge  which  spans  the  ravine  and  river  at  this  point — 
a  work  which  will  well  repay  a  careful  survey,  since  it  is  regarded  as  a  triumph  of  the 
bridge-builder's  skill.  This  bridge,  or,  more  properly,  viaduct,  is  said  to  be  the  largest 
wooden  structure  of  its  kind  in  the  world.  It  crosses  the  river  at  a  point  hardly  a 
stone's-throw  above  the  brink  of  the  First  or  Upper  Fall ;  and  its  lightly-framed  piers, 
with  their  straight  lines  reaching  from  the  granite  base  to  the  road-way  above,  contrast 
strangely  with  the  wild  roughness  of  the  natural  chasm  it  spans. 

The  reason  given  by  the  artist  for  not  presenting  an  extended  and  architecturally 
complete  view  of  this  great  work  is  not  without  force.  "  This  is  a  tour  in  search  of  the 
picturesque,"  he  says  ;  "  and  the  straight  lines,  sharp  angles,  and  cut-stone  buttresses  of  a 
railway-bridge  do  not  belong  to  that  order  of  beauty."  Assenting  to  this  just  estimate 
of  the  artist's  mission,  we  turn  away  from  this  hasty  survey  of  the  bridge  to  the  con- 
templation of  the  rough-hewn,  rugged  walls  of  the  chasm  it  spans. 

Divided  for  an  instant  by  the  stone  buttresses  of  the  bridge,  the  waters  of  the  river 
unite  again,  just  in  time  to  present  a  bold  and  unbroken  front  upon  the  brink  of  the 
first  fall.  As  the  body  of  water  which  passes  over  these  falls  is  comparatively  small — ex- 
cept in  seasons  of  flood — and  as  the  first  precipice  is  but  sixty-eight  feet  in  height, 
the  effect  would  be  of  little  moment,  were  it  not  for  the  striking  character  of  the  sur- 
roundings. 

Entering  the  gorge  a  short  distance  above  the  brink  of  this  Upper  Fall,  the  river 
has  cut  for  itself  a  wild,  rugged  channel,  the  walls  of  which  rise  in  a  perpendicular 
height  of  from  two  to  six  hundred  feet,  each  successive  fall  resulting  in  a  deepening  of 
the  chasm,  and  a  consequent  increase  in  the  height  of  the  rocky  barriers. 

It  is  this  chasm  that  constitutes  the  distinctive  feature  in  the  upper  course  of  the 
Genesee.  Beginning  abruptly  at  a  point  not  far  above  the  Upper  Fall,  it  increases 
in  depth  and  wildness  until  the  village  of  Mount  Morris  is  reached,  at  which  point  the 
stream   makes  its  exit    from  the  rocky  confines  as  abruptly  as  it    entered    them,  and,  as 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    GENESEE. 


355 


Middle   Falls,    Portage. 

though  to  atone  for  the  wild- 
ness    of  its   early  course,  set- 
tles   at    once    into    a    gentle 
and    life-giving    current,   gliding    through 
rich    meadows    and    fertile    lowlands,   its 
way    marked    by   a    luxuriant   growth    of 
grass  and  woodland.     But  there  are  other 
features   in  the  region    of   Portage  which 
deserve    more    extended    notice,    and    to 
these  we  willingly  return. 
Having    recovered    from    their    first   bold  leap,  the  waters  unite  and  flow  onward  in 
gentle   current,  with    an    occasional    ripple    or    miniature    rapid,  for  the  distance  of  half  a 
mile,  when  the  brink  of  the   second    and    highest    fall   is   reached.      Over  this  the  waters 
•pour,  in  an  unbroken  sheet,  a  distance  of  one  hundred    and    ten    feet.      At    the    base  of 
this  fall  the  waters   have    carved    out,  on    the  'western    side,  a   dark    cave,  which    may  be 
approached  by  a  wooden  stairway,  standing  at  the  foot  of  which  we  see  the  sky  as  from 
the  depths  of  a  crater. 


356 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Ascending  again  to  the  plateau  that  reaches  out  on  a  line  with  the  brink  of  this 
fall,  we  come  in  sight  of  Glen  Iris,  a  rural  home,  the  fortunate  owner  of  which  is  evi- 
dently the  possessor  of  a  sympathizing  and  appreciative  taste  for  the  beauties  with  which 
he  is  surrounded. 


Ir'llllii'JIOTEift 


Lower   Falls,    Portage. 

Upon  the  lawn  that  divides  Glen-Iris  Cottage  from  the  brink  of  the  precipice  stands 
a  rude  log-cabin,  which  is  in  the  possession  of  a  history  so  closely  linked  with  that  of  the 
first  inhabitants  of  this  wild  region  that  it  becomes  at  once  a  monument  of  peculiar  inter- 
est. The  form  of  this  cabin  is  given  by  the  artist  with  so  careful  a  regard  for  truth  that  a 
description  is  not  needed.  We  have  called  it  merely  a  log-cabin;  and  yet  it  is,  in  truth, 
an  ancient  Indian  council-house,  and  stands  alone,  the  only  ruin  of  what  was  once  a  village 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    GENESEE. 


357 


of  the  Iroquois.  This  ancient  council-house  of  Caneadea  stood  originally  upon  a  bluff 
of  land  overlooking  the  Genesee,  about  twenty-two  miles  above  its  present  site.  It  was 
the  last  relic  of  aboriginal  sovereignty  in  the  valley,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  it 
should  be  so  jealously  guarded  by  its  present  owner,  Mr.  Letch  worth,  on  whose  lawn  it 
stands.  During  the  Indian  wars,  all  the  white  captives  brought  in  from  the  South  and 
East  were  here  received,  and  compelled  to  run  the  gantlet  before  this  council-house,  its 
doors  being  their  only  goal  of  safety.  Among  the  famous  captives  who  were  thus  put 
to  the  test  was  Major  Moses  van  Campen,  a  name  distinguished  in  the  annals  of  the 
wars  with  the   Iroquois.      This    building    sheltered    Mary  Jemison,  "the  white  woman    of 


Indian    Council  House. 


the  Genesee,"  after  her  long,  fearful  march  from  the  Ohio  to  her  home  and  final  resting- 
place  in  the  valley  beyond.  It  was  here  that  the  chiefs  of  the  Seven  Nations  were  wont 
to  hold  their  councils  of  war.  There  is  no  record  of  the  date  of  its  construction,  but 
upon  one  of  the  logs  is  the  sign  of  a  cross,  the  same  as  that  which  the  early  Jesuit 
fathers  were  known  to  have  adopted  as  the  symbol  of  their  faith.  Besides  this  single 
evidence  of  the  presence  of  the  stranger,  the  old  council-house  bears  upon  its  rough  sides 
the  marks  and  signs  of  the  Indians  who  are  now  without  a  home  or  a  country,  and 
yet  who  once  could  call  all  these  wild  passes,  royal  forests,  and  broad  acres,  their  own, 
by  virtue  of  a  long  inheritance.     When  the  Indians  took  their  departure  to  more  western 


358 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


High    Banks,    Portage. 


reservations,  the   old    council-house    came    into    the    possession    of   a   white    squatter,  who 
guarded   it  against  decay,  and   made  it   his  home  for  fifty  years. 

It  is  this  council-house  that  now  stands  on  the  lawn  at  Glen  Iris,  in  full  view  of 
the  distant  bluffs,  and  within  but  a  stone's-throw  of  the  Middle  Fall.  Prompted  by  his 
own  worthy  interest  in  this  last  relic  of  the  old  league,  Mr.  Letchworth  caused  the 
council-house  to  be  removed  from  its  original  site  at  Caneadea,  and  erected  where  it  now 
stands.  In  effecting  this  removal,  great  care  was  taken  to  place  the  building  precisely 
as  it  originally  stood,  each  stick  occupying  the  same  relative  position  to  the  others. 
At  the  rededication  of  the   building,  in   the   autumn   of   1872,  there  were   present  twenty- 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    GENESEE. 


359 


two  Indians.  Among  these  justly  -  distinguished  guests  were  the  grandsons  of  Mary 
Jemison,  Cornplanter,  Red -Jacket,  Tall  Chief,  Captain  Brant,  Governor  Blacksnake,  and 
other  chiefs  whose  names  are  associated  with  the  early  history  of  this  region.  Many 
of  these  strange  guests  wore  the  costumes  of  their  tribes.  The  council-fire  was  again 
lighted  ;  the  pipe  of  peace — the  identical  one  presented  by  Washington  to  Red -Jacket — 
was  passed  again  around  the  circle  of  grave  and  dignified  chiefs,  many  of  whom  were 
natives  of  the  valley,  and  whose  ancestors  were  once  the  sole  possessors  of  all  this  land. 
These  men  were  said  to  be  fine  representatives  of  their  race ;  and  the  speeches  that 
followed  the  first  silent  ceremony  were  delivered  in  the  Seneca  tongue,  with  all  the  old 
eloquence  and  fire.  It  was  an  occasion  worthy  of  a  lasting  record,  as  this  was,  no  doubt, 
the  last   Indian   council  that  will  ever  be   held   in   the  valley  of  the   Genesee. 

After  the  Revolutionary  War  the  league  of  the   Iroquois  was  broken,  the  Mohawks, 


High    Banks,    Mount   Morris. 


36o  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

with  Brant  at  their  head,  entering  the  service  of  the  British,  while  the  Senecas  remained 
true  to  the  new  claimants  of  their  soil.  Thereafter,  Mohawk  and  Seneca  met  only  as 
enemies ;  nor  was  the  feud  healed  until  the  day  of  this  their  last  council,  when  the  grand- 
sons of  Brant  and  Cornplanter  shook  hands  across  the  council-fire,  and  there  smoked 
the  pipe  of  peace. 

The  lonely  council-house,  the  dying  embers,  and  the  dull  rustle  of  the  falling  autumn 
leaves — all  seemed  in  accord  with  this  the  last  scene  in  the  history  of  that  wild  race 
whose  light  has  gone  out  with  the  rising  of  the  new  sun. 

Turning  again  to  the  river,  we  follow  down  a  wild  mountain-road  for  the  distance 
of  two  miles,  at  which  point  a  narrow,  winding  foot-path  leads  down  a  steep  and  rugged 
defile.  Descending  this,  and  guided  by  the  rush  of  waters  below,  we  suddenly  come  upon 
the  Lower  Falls.  Here  the  waters  of  the  river  are  gradually  led  into  narrower  channels, 
until  the  stream  becomes  a  deep-cut  canal,  which,  rushing  down  in  swift  current  between 
its  narrow  limits,  widens  out  just  upon  the  brink  of  the  fall,  that  more  nearly  resembles  a 
steep  rapid  than  either  of  the  others.  Standing  upon  one  of  the  projecting  rocks  which 
are  a  feature  of  this  fall,  we  can  only  catch  occasional  glimpses  of  the  cavern's  bed,  so 
dense  and  obscuring  are  the  mist-clouds.  A  second  and  more  hazardous  pathway  leads 
from  these  rocky  observatories  to  the  base  of  this  the  last  of  the  Portage  falls ;  and  the 
course  of  the  river  now  lies  deep  down  in  its  rock-enclosed  limits,  until  the  broad  valley 
is  reached. 

To  this  rocky  defile  the  general  name  of  High  Banks  is  given — a  name  rendered 
more  definite  by  a  prefix  denoting  their  immediate  locality.  Thus  we  have  the  High 
Banks  at  Portage,  the  Mount-Morris  High  Banks,  and,  at  the  lower  end  of  the  valley, 
the  High  Banks  below  the  lower  fall  at  Rochester. 

To  the  tourist  who  is  possessed  of  a  full  measure  of  courage  and  strength,  a  journey 
along  the  river's  shore  from  the  lower  falls  to  the  valley  will  reveal  wonders  of  natural 
architecture  hardly  exceeded  by  the  canons  of  the  far  West.  Here,  hidden  beneath 
the  shadows  of  the  overhanging  walls  of  rock,  it  is  hard  to  imagine  that,  just  beyond 
that  line  of  Norway  pines  that  forms  a  fringe  against  the  sky  above,  lie  fertile  fields 
and  quiet  homes.  A  just  idea  of  the  depth  of  this  continuous  ravine  can  best  be 
secured  by  an  ascent  to  one  of  the  projecting  points  above,  where,  resting  on  a  ledge 
of  rock,  the  river  is  seen  at  one  point  six  hundred  feet  below,  a  distance  which  changes 
with  the  varying  surface  of  the  land  above.  At  certain  points  the  river  seems  to  have 
worn  out  a  wider  channel  than  it  can  now  fill,  and  here  are  long,  narrow  levels  of  rich, 
alluvial  soil;  and,  if  it  be  the  harvest -season,  we  can  catch  glimpses  of  life  in  these 
deep-down  valleys,  pigmy  men  and  horses  gathering  in  a  miniature  harvest  of  maize  or 
wheat ;  while,  at  noonday,  the  rich  golden  yellow  of  the  ripened  grain  contrasts  strangely 
with  the  deep,  emerald  green  of  the  sloping  sides  or  the  dull  gray  of  the  slaty  walls 
beyond. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    GENESEE. 


361 


Although  the  point  where  the  river  enters  the  ravine  at  Portage  is  but  twelve  miles 
in  a  direct  line  from  that  of  its  exit  at  Mount  Morris,  the  distance,  following  its  winding 
course  among  the  hills,  is  much  greater.  Having  traversed  this  distance,  however,  we  are 
brought  suddenly  into  the  presence  of  a  scene  the  direct  antithesis  of  all  that  has  gone 
before.     Emerging  through  what    is   literally    a   rocky    gate-way,  the    whole    mood    of  the 


Elms   on   the   Genesee   Flats. 


river  seems  to  have  changed  with  that  of  its  surroundings.  In  order  to  make  this 
change  as  conspicuous  as  possible,  we  ascend  to  one  of  the  two  summits  of  the  terminal 
hills.  Standing  upon  this,  and  shaded  by  the  grand  oaks  which  crown  it,  we  have 
but  to  turn  the  eye  southward  to  take  in  at  a  glance  the  whole  valley  below,  which 
is  a  grand  park,  reaching  far  away  to  the  south.  The  sloping  highlands  are  dotted  here 
and    there  with    rural  villages,  whose  white    church-spires    glisten    in    the    rich,  warm    sun- 

117 


362 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


o 


light.  Below  and  around  are  the  mead- 
ows and  alluvial  places  known  as  the 
Genesee  Flats. 

The  present  view  embraces  broad, 
level  fields,  marked  out  by  well  -  kept 
fences,  enclosing  areas  often  one  hundred 
acres  in  extent.  Should  it  be  the  har- 
vest-season, we  may  distinguish  almost  at 
our  feet  broad  fields  crossed  their  entire 
length  by  endless  rows  of  richly-tasselled 
broom-corn.  To  the  right  are  the  justly- 
celebrated  nurseries,  with  their  lines  of 
miniature  fruit  and  shade  trees  ;  the  dis- 
tant slopes  are  dotted  with  the  golden 
wheat-harvests ;  while,  reaching  far  away 
to  the  south,  are  the  rich  meadow-lands 
of  the  Genesee.  In  the  midst  of  all 
flows  the  river,  its  waters  giving  life  and 
beauty  to  the  numerous  groves  of  oaks 
and  elms  which  shadow  its  course.  It  is, 
in  fact,  a  broad  lawn,  unbroken  save  by 
an  occasional  hillock,  with  here  and  there 
groves  of  rare  old  oaks,  beneath  whose 
shade  droves  of  cattle  graze  at  leisure. 
These  groups  of  oaks  and  elms  are  a 
marked  feature  of  the  flats,  and  many 
of  our  most  famous  landscape-painters — 
among  others  Casilear,  Coleman,  Durand, 
and  Kensett — have  taken  up  their  abode 
here  in  order  to  secure  sketches  of  these 
"  trees,"  which  have  afterward  figured  as 
among  the  most  attractive  features  of 
their  finished  works. 

This  valley,  like  all  others  watered 
by  rivers  taking  their  rise  in  neighboring 
mountain-districts,  is  subject  to  frequent  and  occasionally  disastrous  inundations.  For- 
tunately, however,  the  moods  of  the  river  are  oftenest  in  accord  with  those  of  the 
varying  seasons  ;  for  this  reason  freshets  seldom  come  upon  the  ungathered  harvests. 
The    possibility    of  this  event,  however,  leads    the    landholders    to    reserve    their    meadows 


364 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


East    Side,    Upper    Falls    of  the    Genesee. 


upon  the  flats  for  grazing  purposes,  and  hence  the  damage  of  a  flood  is  mainly  con- 
fined to  the  destruction  of  fences  and  an  occasional  hay-barrack.  The  regular  recur- 
rence   of   these    inundations   affects,   also,   the   laying   out  of  the   highways.      Were    it    not 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    GENESEE. 


365 


West   Side,    Upper   flails   of  the   Genesee. 


for  the  floods,  the  main  avenues  north  and  south  would  naturally  be  surveyed  along 
the  level  land  of  the  flats.  As  it  is,  however,  these  highways  lead  along  the  adjacent 
hill -sides,    with    an    occasional    road    leading    across    the    valley.      Among    the    important 


366  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

and  most  frequented  of  these  avenues  is  that  leading  from  the  village  of  Mount  Mor- 
ris southward,  and  known  as  the  Mount -Morris  Turnpike.  It  is  along  this  that 
our  southward  journey  now  tends,  the  objective  point  being  the  lovely  village  of 
Geneseo. 

This  village  is  the  shire  town  of  Livingston  County,  within  the  boundaries  of  which 
the  richest  of  the  valley-lands  are  situated.  It  stands  upon  the  eastern  slopes  of  the 
valley,  the  river,  at  its  nearest  point,  running  half  a  mile  distant.  The  history  of 
Geneseo  is  that  of  the  valley  itself,  since  it  was  here  that  many  of  the  first  white 
settlements  were  made.  We  enter  its  limits  from  the  south,  and  the  first  suggestion  of 
its  presence  is  the  old  Wadsworth  homestead,  whose  broad  porticos,  facing  westward, 
command  a  glorious  view  of  all  the  rich  domain  below.  The  grounds  that  belong  to 
this  old  mansion  mark  the  southern  limit  of  the  village  proper,  the  entrance  to  which  is 
bounded  by  the  homestead-grounds  upon  the  right,  and  an  old,  prim-looking  village  park 
upon  the  left.  Leaving  the  artist  to  obtain  his  desired  sketch  of  the  valley  from  this 
point,  we  will  turn  our  back  upon  him  for  the  present,  while  we  ascend  the  avenue 
marking  the  southern  boundary  of  the  town,  and  reverently  enter  the  "  Village  on  the 
Hill."  Here  lies,  in  the  peace  and  rest  that  come  after  noble  service,  all  that  remains 
of  one  of  New  York's  most  illustrious  citizens.  General  James  S.  Wadsworth,  who,  after 
distinguished  service  in  the  field,  fell  "  with  his  face  to  the  foe  "  in  the  battle  of  the  Wil- 
derness. 

Along  the  western  slope  of  the  hill,  upon  the  summit  of  which  is  this  village  of  the 
dead,  rests  the  village  of  the  living  ;  and  one  might  go  far  to  find  a  more  perfect  rural 
hamlet.  The  streets,  which  run  at  right  angles,  are  lined  with  graceful  shade-trees ;  and 
the  view  from  those  running  east  and  west  embraces  that  of  the  rich  valley  in  the  fore- 
ground, and,  in  the  distance,  the  undulating  harvest-fields.  That  dark  opening  into  the 
hill-side  toward  the  south  is  the  gate-way  through  which  the  river  enters  the  valley  ; 
while,  far  away  northward,  that  cone-shaped  eminence  marks  the  suburbs  of  the  city  of 
Rochester,  our  next  objective  point,  and  the  limit  of  our  valley  tour. 

Transferring  ourselves  and  baggage,  including  the  artist's  easel  and  the  tourist's  port- 
folio, from  the  lumbering  stage  to  the  less  rural  but  more  expeditious  rail-car,  we  are 
soon  under  way,  northward  bound.  The  railway  that  serves  as  a  means  of  exit  from 
the  region  of  the  upper  valley  is  a  branch  of  the  Erie,  known  as  the  Genesee  Valley 
road.  It  connects  the  city  of  Rochester  with  the  valley  villages  of  Avon,  Geneseo, 
Mount  Morris,  and  now  Dansville,  the  last  a  flourishing  town  seated  upon  one  of  the 
tributaries  of  the  Genesee,  and  thus  being  entitled  to  a  place  among  this  beautiful  sister- 
hood. At  Avon  this  road  crosses  the  northern  branch  of  the  Erie.  At  this  point  are 
the  justly-famous  sulphur  springs  ;  and,  if  the  health-giving  properties  of  these  waters 
are  in  any  degree  commensurate  with  their  mineral  strength,  Avon  deserves  a  front 
rank    among   the    health-resorts    of    the     State.       Continuing    our   journey    twenty    miles 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    GENESEE. 


36; 


Lower   Falls. 


farther,  following  the  line 
of  the  river  along  its  east- 
ern shores,  we  enter  Mon- 
roe County,  and  approach 
the  city  of  Rochester. 

This   city  stands   in    the  same    relation  to 
the    valley   as    does    a    storage  and  distributing 
,4Ci  ^"^     s^'^v  reservoir  to    the    streams   from    which  the  sup- 

ply is  received.  In  its  early  days,  the  life  of 
the  city  was  dependent  upon  the  harvest  of  the  valley  ;  when  these  were  abundant,  then 
all  went  well.  Having  already  referred  to  the  wheat-product  of  the  valley,  we  can  readily 
understand  the  need  and  consequent  prosperity  of  the  city,  which  has  long  been  known  as 
the  "  Flour  City  of  the  West."  Although  now  ranking  as  the  fifth  city  in  the  State,  there 
are  yet  living  many  persons  whose  childhood  dates  back  of  that  of  the  city  in  which  they 
dwell.     From  a  brief  historical  sketch  on  the  subject,  we    learn    that,  in  expressing  aston- 


368  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

ishment  at  the  career  of  Rochester,  De  Witt  CHnton  remarked,  shortly  before  his  death, 
that,  when  he  passed  the  Genesee  on  a  tour  with  other  commissioners  for  exploring  the 
route  of  the  Erie  Canal,  in  1810,  there  w^as  not  a  house  where  Rochester  now  stands. 
It  Nvas  not  till  the  year  181 2  that  the  "  Hundred-acre  Tract,"  as  it  was  then  called,  was 
planned  out  as  the  nucleus  of  a  settlement  under  the  name  of  Rochester,  after  the  senior 
proprietor,  Nathaniel  Rochester.  "In  the  year  18 14,"  writes  one  of  these  pioneers,  "  I 
cleared  three  or  four  acres  of  ground  on  which  the  Court-House,  St.  Luke's  Church, 
First  Presbyterian  Church,  and  School-house  No.  i,  now  stand,  and  sowed  it  to  wheat, 
and  had  a  fine  crop.  The  harvesting  cost  me  nothing,  as  it  was  most  effectually  done 
by  the  squirrels,  coons,  and  other  wild  beasts  of  the  forest.  Scarcely  three  years,  how- 
ever, had  elapsed  before  the  ground  was  mostly  occupied  with  buildings."  From  this 
and  abundant  kindred  testimony,  it  is  evident  that  the  early  pioneers  of  this  western 
region  were  men  of  energy  and  foresight,  who  saw  in  the  valley  of  the  Genesee  the 
"  garden-plot  of  the  West,"  and  in  the  then  village  of  Rochester  the  future  "  Granary 
of  America." 

Having  already  referred  to  the  second  series  of  falls  and  high  banks,  we  will  again 
return  to  the  guidance  of  the  river  as  it  enters  the  city  limits  at  its  southern  boundaries. 
Its  course  lies  directly  across  or  through  the  centre  of  the  city,  the  main  avenues,  running 
east  and  west,  being  connected  by  several  iron  bridges,  with  the  exception  of  that  known 
as  the  Main-Street  Bridge,  which  is  of  stone,  and  the  two  wooden  railway-bridges. 

It  is  at  the  city  of  Rochester  that  the  Erie  Canal  encounters  the  Genesee  River, 
which  it  crosses  upon  the  massive  stone  aqueduct,  that  has  long  been  regarded  as  one 
of  the  most  important  works  of  American  engineers.  In  its  present  course  the  river  has 
rather  the  appearance  of  a  broad  canal,  save  that  the  current  is  rapid,  and,  at  times, 
boisterous.  The  shores  are  lined  by  huge  stone  mills  and  factories,  the  foundation-walls 
of  which  act  the  part  of  dikes  in  confining  the  waters  to  their  legitimate  channels.  At 
a  point  near  the  Erie  Railway  depot  the  river  is  crossed  by  a  broad  dam,  from  either 
side  of  which  the  waters  are  led  in  two  mill-races,  which  pass  under  the  streets  and 
conduct  the  waters  to  the  mills  along  the  route.  At  a  point  somewhat  below  the 
centre  of  the  city,  and  yet  directly  within  its  limits,  are  the  First  or  Upper  Falls. 
These  are  ninety  -  six  feet  in  height,  and  it  is  thus  evident  that,  with  such  a  cata- 
ract in  the  centre  of  the  city,  the  facilities  for  obtaining  water-power  could  hardly  be 
excelled.  The  mill-races  conduct  the  main  supply  along  the  two  opposite  shores,  and,  as 
the  mills  are  mainly  situated  below  the  level  of  the  falls,  the  full  force  of  the  water  can 
be  utilized.  The  illustrations  of  the  Upper  Fall  have  been  so  designed  that  the  two 
combined  present  a  full  view  of  the  whole  front  as  viewed  from  the  chasm  below,  the 
darkened  channels  through  which  the  water  from  the  races  arc  returned  to  the  river 
being  shown  to  the   right  and  left. 

The    brink    of   this    fall   marks   the    upper    limit    of   a    second    series    of  high    banks 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    GENESEE. 


;69 


similar  in  general  character  to  those  that  lie  between  Portage  and  Mount  Morris.  The 
height  of  these  walls  at  certain  points  exceeds  three  hundred  feet.  At  the  distance  of 
about  a  mile  from  the  Upper  Fall,  a  second  descent  of  about  twenty-five  feet  is  followed, 
at  the  distance  of  a  few  rods  only,  by  the  Third  or  Lower  Falls,  which  are  nearly  one 
hundred  feet  in  height.  It  thus  appears  that,  within  the  limits  of  the  city,  the  waters 
of  the  Genesee  make  a  descent,  including  the  falls  and  the  rapids  above  them,  of  two 
hundred  and  sixty  feet,  and  the  water-power,  as  estimated  for  the  Upper  Fall  alone, 
equals  forty  thousand  horse-power.  Among  the  interesting  features  of  Rochester  are  its 
nurseries  and  seed-gardens,  the  largest  in  the  world. 

As  the  river  has  now  reached  the  level  of  Lake  Ontario,  it  assumes  the  character 
of  a  deep-set  harbor,  and  the  vessels  engaged  in  lake-traffic  can  ascend  it  five  miles  to 
the  foot  of  the  Lower  Falls.  The  port  of  entry,  however,  is  at  the  mouth  of  the  river, 
where  stands  the  village  of  Charlotte.  Here  are  wharves,  a  light-house,  and  a  railroad- 
depot,  which  road  leads  direct  to  Rochester, 


118 


Light-house,    Charlotte. 


THE  ST.  LAWRENCE  AND  THE  SAGUENAY. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS   BY   JAMES   D.    SMILLIE. 


Entrance   to   Thousand   Islands. 


I 


T  is  three  o'clock  of  a  June  morning  on  the  St.  Lawrence ;  the  Httle  city  of  Kingston 
is    as    fast    asleep    as    its    founder,  the  old   Frenchman    De    Courcelles ;   the  moon  is 


THE    ST.    LAWRENCE    AND    THE    SAGUENAY. 


371 


ebbing  before  the  breaking  day ;  a  phantom-like  sloop  is  creeping  slowly  across  the 
smooth  stream.  At  the  steamboat-wharf  there  is  a  little  blaze  of  light  and  a  rush  of 
noisy  life,  which  breaks,  but  does  not  penetrate,  the  surrounding  silence.  The  Lake- 
Ontario  steamer  has  brought  a  pack  of  eager  tourists  into  the  town — not  to  stay,  for 
another  vessel  is  in  waiting,  ready  to  bear  them  down  the  river,  through    the    rapids    and 


Light-Houses   among   the   Thousand    Islands. 

the  channels  of  the  Thousand  Islands,  to  Montreal.  The  pent-up  steam  screams  through 
t-he  pipes ;  lamps  gleam  fitfully  among  barricades  of  freight  and  baggage  on  the  wharf ; 
men's  voices  mingle  hoarsely.  "  All  aboard ! "  The  bell  rings  out  its  farewell  notes ;  the 
whistle  pipes  its  shrill  warning  into  the  night,  and  the  Spartan  slips  her  moorings,  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  sleepy  travellers  who  crowd  her  decks  and  cabins.     By  this  time  the  east 


Among  the   Thousand    Islands. 


is  tinted  purple,  amber,  and  roseate.  Night  is  fast  retreating.  Ardent  young  couples,  on 
their  wedding-journey,  are  a  notable  element  among  our  fellow-travellers ;  but  there  are 
all  sorts  of  other  people  from  the  States,  with  here  and  there  a  chubby,  florid,  drawling 
Englishman.  Most  of  us  are  journeying  on  round-trip  tickets  from  New  York,  and  are 
as  intimate  with  one  another's  aims  and  ends  as   if  we  were  crossing  the  ocean  together. 


372 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


We  all  came  up  the  Hudson  in  the  Vibbard;  all  occupied  the  same  Pullman  car  between 
Albany  and  Niagara,  and  will  all  rush  to  the  same  hotels  in  Montreal  and  Quebec,  as 
fashion  bids  us.  Soon  after  leaving  Kingston,  we  bestir  ourselves,  and  choose  eligible 
seats  in  the  forward  part  of  the  boat.  We  chat  without  restraint,  and  expectation  is  rife 
as  we  near  the  famed  Thousand  Islands.  The  descriptions  we  have  read  and  the  stories 
we  have  heard  of  the  panorama  before  us  flock  vividly  into  our  memories.  We  are  all 
accoutred  with  guide-books,  maps,  and  books  of  Indian  legend.  One  sweet  little  neighbor 
of  ours,  in  regulation  lavender,  brings  out  a  neatly-written  copy  of  Tom  Moore's  "  Row, 


Between   Wellesley    Island  and   the   Canadian    Shore. 


Brothers,  row,"  which  she  holds  in  her  pretty  hand,  ready  to  recite  to  her  husband  the 
very  moment  St.  Anne's  comes  into  view.  Meanwhile  she  is  fearful  that  St.  Anne's  may 
slip  by  unnoticed,  notwithstanding  the  assurances  made  to  her  that  the  much-desired  St. 
Anne's  is  twelve  hours'  sail  ahead  of  us.  How  lightly  she  laughs  as  the  boat's  white 
stem  cleaves  the  cool,  gray  surface !  and  how  enthusiastically  she  repeats  Ruskin  as 
the  colors  in  the  morning  sky  grow  warmer  and  deeper,  and  as  the  sun  rises  directly 
ahead  of  us,  opening  a  golden  pathway  on  the  water !  and  how  prettily  surprised  she  is 
when  her  beloved  tells  her  that  the  Thousand  Islands  number  one  thousand  six  hundred 


THE    ST.    LAWRENCE    AND     THE    SAGUENAY. 


173 


and  ninety-two,  as  may  be  ascertained  in  the  Treaty  of  Ghent  !  Still  listening  to  her 
childish  prattle,  we  are  further  occupied  with  the  banks  of  the  river,  and  the  numerous 
dots  of  land  that  lie  in  our  course — the  Thousand  Islands. 

Are  we   disappointed  ?      That  is  the  question  which  most  of  us  propound  before  we 
proceed  many  miles.     There  is  little  variety  in  their  form  and  covering.      So   much    alike 


Entering  the    Rapids. 


are  they  in  these  respects  that  our  steamer  might  be  almost  at  a  stand-still  for  all  the 
change  we  notice  as  she  threads  her  way  through  the  thirty-nine  miles  which  they  thickly 
intersperse.  In  size  they  differ  much,  however,  some  being  only  a  few  yards  in  extent, 
and  others  several  miles.  The  verdure  on  most  of  them  is  limited  to  a  sturdy  growth 
of  fir  and  pine,  with  occasionally  some  scrubby  undergrowth,  which  sprouts  with  northern 


374  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

vigor  from  crevices  in  the  rocky  bed.  The  light-houses  which  mark  out  our  channel  are 
a  picturesque  feature,  and  are  nearly  as  frequent  as  the  islands  themselves ;  but  all  are 
drearily  alike^fragile  wooden  structures,  about  twenty  feet  high,  uniformly  whitewashed. 
As  the  Spartan  speeds  on,  breaking  the  rippling  surface  into  tumultuous  waves,  we  meet 
a  small  boat,  pulled  by  a  lonely  man,  who  attends  to  the  lamps  from  the  shore,  lighting 
them  at  sunset,  and  putting  them  out  at  sunrise.  Some  anglers  are  also  afloat,  and  anon 
a  large  fish  sparkles  at  the  end  of  their  line,  and  is  safely  drawn  aboard.  The  islands 
are  famous  for  sport,  by-the-way.  Fish  of  the  choicest  varieties  and  the  greatest  size 
abound  in  their  waters,  and  wild-fowl  of  every  sort  lurk  on  their  shores.  They  also 
have  their  legends  and  romances,  and  the  guide-books  tell  us,  in  eloquent  language,  of 
the  adventures  of  the  "  patriots "  who  sought  refuge  among  their  labyrinths  during  the 
Canadian  insurrection.  As  the  sun  mounts  yet  higher,  and  the  mist  and  haze  disperse, 
we  run  between  Wellesley  Island  and  the  Canadian  shore,  and  obtain  one  of  the  most 
charming  views  of  the  passage.      The  verdure  is  more  plentiful  and  the  forms   are    more 


Montreal   Island. 

graceful  than  we  have  previously  seen.  Tall  reeds  and  water-grasses  crop  out  of  the 
shoals.  An  abrupt  rock  throws  a  reddish-brown  reflection  on  the  current,  which  is 
skimmed  by  a  flock  of  birds  in  dreamy  flight.  The  banks  of  the  island  and  the  main- 
land slope  with  easy  gradations,  inclining  into  several  bays ;  and  afar  a  barrier  seems  to 
arise  where  the  river  turns  and  is  lost  in  the  distance.  Thence  we  steam  on  in  an  en- 
thusiastic mood  toward  Prescott,  satisfied  with  the  beauties  we  have  seen,  and  arrive 
there  at  breakfast-time,  five  hours  and  a  half  after  leaving  Kingston.  Our  preconcep- 
tions— have  they  been  realized  }  Scarcely.  But  an  artist  in  our  company  tells  us,  con- 
solingly, that  preconceptions  are  a  hinderance  to  enjoyment,  and  ought  to  be  avoided, 
and  that  when  he  first  visited  the  Yosemite,  last  summer,  he  spent  several  days  in  getting 
rid  of  idle  dreams  before  he  could  appreciate  the  majesty  and  glory  of  the  real  scene. 

Below  Prescott  we  pass  an  old  windmill  on  a  low  cape,  where  the  insurrectionists 
established  themselves  in  1837  ;  and,  two  miles  farther,  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  gray  old 
French   fortification   on    Chimney   Island.      Here,  too,  we   descend  the  first  rapids  of  the 


THE    ST.    LAWRENCE    AND    THE    SAGUENAY.  375 

river — the  Gallope  and  the  Deplau  Rapids — with  full  steam  on.  No  excitement,  no 
breathlessness,  attends  us  so  far  in  our  journey.  Engravings  we  have  seen  represent  the 
water  as  seething  white,  with  a  preposterous  steamer  reehng  through  it  at  a  fearful  rate. 
The  passengers  gather  in  a  mass  on  the  forward  deck,  and  brace  their  nerves  for  the 
anticipated  sensation.  They  wait  in  vain.  The  Gallopes  and  Deplaus  are  passed  almost 
without  their  knowledge.  But  we  are  nearing  the  famous  Long-Sault  Rapids,  the 
passage  of  which,  we  know,  must  be  thrilling.  An  Indian  pilot  comes  on  board  to  guide 
us  through — at  least,  the  guide-book  assures  us  that  he  is  an  Indian,  and  supplements  its 
text  with  a  corroborative  portrait  of  a  brave,  in  war-paint  and  feathers,  standing  single- 
handed  at  the  helm — and,  as  he  enters  the  wheel-house  on  the  upper  deck,  he  is  an 
absorbing  object  of  interest.  A  stout,  sailorly  fellow  he  appears,  without  an  aboriginal 
trait  about  him,  or  a  single  feather,  or  a  dab  of  paint.  There  are  some  bustling  prepara- 
tions among  the  crew  for  what  is  coming.  Four  men  stand  by  the  double  wheel  in  the 
house  overhead,  and  two  others  man  the  tiller  astern,  as  a  precaution  against  the  break- 
ing of  a  rudder-rope.  Passengers  move  nervously  on  their  seats,  and  glance  first  ahead, 
and  then  at  the  captain  standing  on  the  upper  deck,  with  one  hand  calmly  folded  in  his 
breast,  and  the  other  grasping  the  signal-bell.  Timid  ladies  are  pale  and  affrighted ; 
young  faces  are  glowing  with  excitement.  The  paddles  are  yet  churning  the  water  into 
snowy  foam.  We  sweep  past  the  scene  of  the  battle  of  Chrysler's  Farm  without  noticing 
it.  In  a  few  seconds  more  we  shall  be  in  the  rapids.  The  uneasy  motions  of  the  pas- 
sengers cease  altogether,  and  their  attention  is  engrossed  by  the  movements  of  the 
captain's  hand.  As  he  is  seen  to  raise  it,  and  the  bell  is  heard  in  the  engine-room,  the 
vibrations  of  the  huge  vessel  die  away ;  the  water  leaps  tempestuously  around  her,  and 
she  pauses  an  instant  like  a  thing  of  life,  bracing  herself  for  a  crisis,  before  she  plunges 
into  the  boiling  current  and  rides  defiantly  down  it.  It  is  a  grand,  thrilling  moment ; 
but  it  is  only  a  moment.  The  next  instant  she  is  speeding  on  as  quietly  as  ever,  without 
other  perceptible  motion  than  a  slight  roll.  The  rapids  are  nine  miles  long,  and  are 
divided  in  the  centre  by  a  picturesque  island,  the  southern  course  usually  being  chosen 
by  the  steamers.  The  Spartan  ran  the  distance  in  half  an  hour,  without  steam,  and  then 
emerged  into  the  waters  of  Lake  St.  Francis,  which  is  twenty-five  miles  long  and  five 
and  a  half  miles  wide. 

This  expanse  exhibits  few  interesting  features,  and  we  have  ample  opportunity  to 
cool  from  the  excitement  caused  by  the  descent  of  the  rapids.  The  banks  of  the  lake 
are  deserted,  and  the  only  human  habitations  seen  are  in  the  little  village  of  Lancaster. 
We  are  impressed,  indeed,  from  our  start,  with  the  few  evidences  of  life  in  the  river 
country  and  on  the  river  itself.  There  are  not  many  farm-houses  or  fine  residences — 
only  a  few  small  villages,  of  a  humble  character  for  the  most  part,  and  an  occasional 
town.  The  drear  monotony  of  our  passage  through  Lake  St.  Francis  is  followed  by 
renewed  excitement  in  the  descent  of  the   Cedar   Rapids,  at  the  foot   of  which  we  enter 


;76 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Lake  St.  Louis.  Uninteresting  as  is  Lake  St.  Francis,  still  more  so  is  the  sheet  of  water 
now  before  us,  bordered  as  it  is  by  flat  lands  reminding  us  of  the  Southern  bayous.  But 
it  is  here  we  get  our  first  glimpse  of  the  bold  outlines  of  Montreal  Island,  rising  softly 
in  the  background ;  and  here,  too,  the  river  Ottawa,  ending  in  the  rapids  of  St.  Anne's, 
pours  its  volume  into  the  greater  St.  Lawrence.  Contemplating  the  expanse  in  the  sub- 
dued evening  light,  it  impresses  us  with  a  depressing  sense  of  primitive  desolation — a 
vague,  untrodden  emptiness — and   infuses   melancholy  into    our    feelings   without    exciting 


River-front,    Montreal. 

our  symj^athies.  But  soon  we  are  aroused  to  a  more  agreeable  and  becoming  frame  of 
mind  by  our  little  bride  in  the  lavender  dress,  who  is  briskly  reciting  "  Row,  Brothers, 
row,"  to  her  submissive  Corydon  : 

"  '  Blow,    breezes,    blow  !     The    stream    runs    fast, 
The    rapids    are    near,    and   the    daylight's   past.' " 


A  queer-looking  barge,  with  a  square  sail  set,  lumbering  across  our  course,  and  throw- 
ing a  black  shadow  on  the  water  that  is  now  richly  tinted  with  purple  and  deep  red ;  a 
light-house  at  the  extremity  of  a  shoal,  yet  unlighted  ;  a  mass  of  drift-wood,  sluggishly 
moving   with    the    current ;    a  puff   of  smoke,  hovering    about    the    isolated  village   of   St. 


MONTREAL. 


2,7^  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

Clair — these  things  are  all  we  meet  in  our  voyage  across  the  broad  St.  Louis.  Farther 
up  the  river  there  has  been  little  more  life — once  in  a  while  a  monstrous  raft  coming 
down  from  the  wilderness,  manned  by  four  or  five  sturdy  fellows  who  live  a  precarious 
life  in  a  rude  hut  perched  on  the  groaning  timbers.  Nothing  more  than  this — no  Indians 
skimming  the  rapids  in  birch  canoes,  no  vestiges  of  the  old  life  of  this  region,  and  no 
stirring  evidences  of  the  newer  civilization.  Occasionally  we  have  met  a  steamer,  as  large 
as  the  Spartan,  making  the  upward  passage,  and  apparently  moving  through  the  fields  on 
the  banks  of  the  river.  An  incorrigibly  practical  friend  of  ours  explains  :  "  A  vessel  of 
such  burden  cannot  ascend  the  rapids ;  and  canals,  with  a  system  of  locks,  have  been  cut 
in  the  land  wherever  the  rapids  occur.  Between  Kingston  and  Montreal  there  are  eight 
canals,  forty-one  miles  long,  and  supplied  with  twenty-seven  locks,  capable  of  admitting 
the  largest  paddle-steamers."  The  same  friend,  incited  by  our  inquiries,  has  much  pleasure 
in  adding  several  other  facts  about  the  river  for  our  information :  "  The  St.  Lawrence  was 
originally  called  the  Great  River  of  Canada,  and  was  also  known  under  the  names  of 
the  Cataraqui  and  the  Iroquois.  Its  present  name  was  given  to  it  by  the  explorer 
Cartier,  who  entered  it  with  some  French  ships  on  the  festival-day  of  St.  Lawrence,  in 
1535.  He  had  been  preceded  by  one  Aubert,  a  mariner  of  Dieppe,  in  1508;  but  Cartier 
went  to  a  higher  point  than  Aubert,  anchoring  nearly  opposite  the  site  of  Quebec.  In 
1 59 1,  another  exploration  having  been  made  in  the  mean  time,  a  fleet  was  sent  out  from 
France  to  hunt  for  walruses  in  the  river ;  and  the  veteran  scribe  Hakluyt  announces  that 
fifteen  thousand  of  these  animals  were  killed  in  a  single  season  by  the  crew  of  one 
small  bark." 

Here  the  practical  man  is  interrupted.  The  steamer  stops  at  the  Indian  village  of 
Caughnawaga,  and,  after  a  short  delay,  proceeds  toward  the  Lachine  Rapids.  In  the 
descent  of  these  we  are  wrought  to  a  feverish  degree  of  excitement,  exceeding  that  pro- 
duced in  the  descent  of  the  Long  Sault.  It  is  an  intense  sensation,  terrible  to  the  faint- 
hearted, and  exhilarating  to  the  brave.  Once — twice — we  seem  to  be  hurrying  on  to  a 
rock,  and  are  within  an  ace  of  total  destruction,  when  the  Spartan  yields  to  her  helm, 
and  sweeps  into  another  channel.  As  we  reach  calm  water  again,  we  can  faintly  distin- 
guish in  the  growing  night  the  prim  form  of  the  Victoria  Bridge,  and  the  spires,  domes, 
and  towers  of  Montreal,  the  commercial  metropolis  of  British  North  America.  The 
gentle  hills  in  the  rear,  well  wooded  and  studded  with  dwellings,  are  enveloped  in  a  blue 
haze,  darkening  on  the  southern  skirts,  where  the  heart  of  the  city  beats  in  vigorous  life. 
Lights  are  glimmering  in  the  twilight  on  the  river ;  black  sailing-craft  are  gliding  mys- 
teriously about  with  limp  canvas ;  the  startling  shriek  ,of  a  locomotive  echoes  athwart,  and 
a  swiftly-moving  wreath  of  luminous-looking  smoke,  followed  by  a  streak  of  lighted  win- 
dows, marks  the  progress  of  a  flying  night-train  wheeling  beyond  the  din  and  toil  of  this 
dim  spot.  We  feel  the  sentiment  of  a  return  home  in  reaching  a  thriving,  populous  city 
again,  after  our  day's  wandering  through  the  seclusive  garden-islands  of  the  St.  Lawrence; 


THE    ST.    LAWRENCE    AND     THE    SAGUENAY. 


379 


and  we  yawn  complacently  on 
our  restoration  to  the  electric 
bells,  the  attentive  waiters,  and 
unromantic  comforts  of  the 
modern  hotel. 

A  night's  rest  among  these, 
in  a  bed  of  faultless  whiteness, 
prepares  us  for  the  following 
day's  tramp  through  this  an- 
cient metropolis  of  the  Indians 
(which  long  bore  the  name  of 
Hochelaga)  and  modern  me- 
tropolis of  the  Canadians. 
Montreal  does  not  resemble  an 
English  city  —  the  streets  are 
too  regular  —  and  it  does  not 
resemble  our  own  American 
cities,  than  which  it  is  more 
substantially  built.  Its  substan- 
tiality is  particularly  impressive 
—  the  limestone  wharves  ex- 
tending for  miles,  the  finely- 
paved  streets  lined  with  mas- 
sive edifices  of  the  most  endur- 
ing materials,  imprinted  with 
their  constructors'  determination 
that  they  shall  not  be  swept 
away  in  many  generations. 
There  is  an  honest  austerity  in 
the  character  of  the  work — no 
superfluous  ornamentation,  no 
clap-traps  of  architecture.  The 
site  is  naturally  picturesque.  It 
is  on  the  southern  slope  of  a 
mountain  in  the  chain  which 
divides  the  verdant,  fertile  isl- 
and of  Montreal.  There  are 
a  high  town  and  a  low  town, 
as  at  Quebec  ;   and  on   the  up- 


Breakneck  Stairs,  Quebec. 


38o  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

reaching  ground,  leafy  roads  winding  through,  are  the  villa  residences  of  the  fashionable. 
The  prospect  from  these  bosky  heights  repays,  with  liberal  interest,  the  toil  of  the  pedes- 
trian who  seeks  them  from  the  city.  Perched  on  some  balcony,  as  a  king  on  a  throne, 
he  may  survey,  on  the  fair  level  beneath  him,  the  humming  streets ;  the  long  line  of 
wharves,  with  their  clustering  argosies ;  the  vast  iron  tube  which  binds  the  opposite 
sparsely-settled  shore  to  the  arterial  city ;  Nun's  Island,  with  its  flowery  grounds,  neatly 
laid  out ;  beautiful  Helen's  Island,  thick  with  wood ;  the  village  of  Laprairie,  its  tinned 
spire  glistening  like  a  spike  of  silver ;  the  golden  thread  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  stretching 
beyond  the  Lachine  Rapids  into  mazes  of  heavy,  green  foliage ;  the  pretty  villages  of 
St.  Lambert,  Longueuil,  and  Vercheres  ;  and  afar  off,  bathed  in  haze  and  mystery,  the 
purple  hills  of  Vermont.  Perchance,  while  his  eye  roams  over  the  varied  picture  with 
keen  delight,  there  booms  over  the  roofs  of  the  town  the  great  bell  of  Notre-Dame,  and 
he  saunters  down  the  height  in  answer  to  its  summons — through  hilly  lanes  of  pretty 
cottages  on  the  outskirts  into  the  resonant  St. -James  Street ;  past  the  old  post-office, 
which  is  soon  to  be  superseded  by  a  finer  structure ;  underneath  the  granite  columns  of 
Molson's  Bank — Molson's  Bank,  as  celebrated  as  Childs's  Bank  at  Temple  Bar;  through 
Victoria  Square,  and  on  until  he  reaches  the  Place  d'Armes.  Here  is  the  cathedral  of 
Notre-Dame,  a  massive  structure  capable  of  holding  ten  thousand  people,  with  a  front  on 
the  square  of  one  hundred  and  forty  feet,  and  two  towers  soaring  two  hundred  and 
twenty  feet  above.  Climbing  one  of  these  towers,  the  view  of  the  river  and  city  obtained 
from  the  mountain-side  is  repeated,  with  the  surrounding  streets  included.  Opposite  the 
cathedral,  in  the  Place  d'Armes,  is  a  row  of  Grecian  buildings,  occupied  by  city  banks; 
on  each  side  are  similar  buildings — marble,  granite,  and  limestone,  appearing  largely  in  their 
composition.  In  the  centre  we  may  pause  a  while  in  the  refreshing  shade  of  the  park, 
and  hear  the  musical  plashing  of  the  handsome  fountain  as  it  glints  in  the  bright  sun- 
light. Thence  we  wander  to  the  magnificent  water-front,  which  offers  greater  facilities  for 
commerce  than  that  of  any  other  American  city.  The  quays  are  of  solid  limestone,  and 
are  several  feet  below  a  spacious  esplanade,  which  runs  parallel  with  them.  The  cars  of 
the  Grand  Trunk  Railway  bring  produce  from  the  West  to  the  very  hatchways  of  the 
shipping,  and  cargoes  are  transferred  in  the  shortest  p9ssible  time  and  at  the  least  pos- 
sible expense.  Our  practical  friend  carries  us  off  to  the  Victoria  Bridge,  and  utters 
some  of  his  pent-up  knowledge  on  that  subject,  which  we  listen  to  with  praiseworthy 
fortitude  :  "  Its  length  is  nearly  two  miles.  It  is  supported  by  twenty-four  piers  and  two 
abutments  of  solid  masonry.  The  tube  through  which  the  railway-track  is  laid  is  twenty- 
two  feet  high,  and  sixteen  feet  wide.  The  total  cost  of  the  structure  was  six  million 
three  hundred  thousand  dollars."  Then  we  go  to  see  the  Bonsecours  Market,  the  nun- 
neries, Mount-Royal  Cemetery,  the  imposing  Custom-House,  the  Nelson  Monument,  and 
the  water  -  works ;  and  in  the  evening  we  continue  our  journey  down  the  river  to 
Quebec. 


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382 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA, 


We  might  be  travelling  through  some  broad  river  of  France,  so  thoroughly  French 
are  the  names  of  the  villages.  On  one  bank  are  L'Assomption,  St.  Sulpice,  La  Vittre, 
Berthier,  Fond  du  Lac,  and  Batiscon  ;  on  the  other,  Becancour,  Gentilly,  St.  Pierre,  De- 
chellons,  and  Lothinier.  But  the  people  of  these  villages  are  neither  European  nor 
American  in  language,  manners,  or  appearance.  Descended  from  the  old  French  settlers, 
crossed  with  the  Indian  and  American,  they  retain  some  of  the  traits  of  each.  Their 
high  cheek-bones,  aquiline  nose,  and  thin,  compressed  Hps, 
refer  us  to  the  aboriginal ;  but  they  are  below  the  average  ^^^^ 

height,    while    stouter   and    stronger,    and    less  ""^"^^^fflll- 

graceful,  than    the    French.      They   are    singu- 
larly hardy,  and  therein  resemble  the  primitive 


Americans, 
enduring  the  worst 
extremes  of  heat  and  cold 
without  show  of  discomfort.  In 
their  dress  and  houses  they  follow  the  fash- 
ions of  the  peasants  of  Normandy.  The 
poorer  of  them  build  of  logs,  and  the  wealthier  of 
stone.  Their  houses  are  alike  one -storied,  low- 
roofed,  and  whitewashed.  In  their  habits  they  are 
notably  clean  and  thrifty,  simple,  virtuous,  and  deeply  religious.  A  traveller  once  declared 
them  to  be  "  the  most  contented,  most  innocent,  and  most  happy  yeomanry  and  peas- 
antry of  the  whole  civilized  world ; "  and  in  that  opinion  all  concur  who  have  had  an 
opportunity  to  observe  them.  A  day  might  be  pleasantly  spent  with  them,  but  the 
steamer  hastens  us  on  to  Quebec,  and  leaves  the  spires  of  their  little  churches  golden  in 
the  sunset  sky. 


Durham   Terrace,    Quebec. 


THE    ST.    LAWRENCE    AND    THE    SAGUENAY. 


583 


Quebec  ! 
The  historic 
city  of  Cana- 
da ;  the  city  of  conquests, 
of  mihtary  glory,  of  be- 
wildering contrasts  !  It  is 
yet  early  morning  when  we  arrive  there ;  a 
veil  of  mist  obscures  the  more  distant  ob- 
jects. As  we  approach  from  Montreal,  the 
view  obtained  is  not  the  most  impressive.  It  would  be  better,  we  are  assured,  were  we 
coming  from  down  the  river.  But  who  that  loves  the  ancient,  the  gray,  the  quaint,  is  not 
touched  with  emotion  on  finding  himself  at  the  portals  of  the  noble  old  fortress  looking 
down  upon  the  ample  water-path  to  the  heart  of  the  continent .?  Who  is  proof  at  the 
sight  against  a  little  sentiment  and  a  little  dreaming .?  Our  minds  are  fraught  with  mem- 
ories of  the  early  explorers,  of  battles  and  their  heroes,  of  strange    social   conditions  that 


From  the  Top  of  Montmorency  Falls,  looking  toward  Quebec. 


384  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

have  existed  and  exist  in  the  shadow  of  yon  looming  rock,  whither  our  steamer's  bow  is 
directed.  We  can  look  into  no  epoch  of  its  history  that  is  not  full  of  .color  and  inter- 
est. Illustrious  names  are  woven  in  its  pages — Richelieu,  Conde,  Beauharnais,  Mont- 
morency, Laval,  and  Montcalm.  Two  nations  struggled  for  its  possession.  We  see  old 
Jacques  Cartier  ascending  the  river  in  1534,  and  holding  a  conference  with  the  Indians 
then  in  occupation  of  the  site,  which  they  called  Stadacona.  Half  a  century  later, 
Champlain,  the  geographer,  enters  the  scene  at  the  head  of  a  vigorous  colony,  and  builds 
barracks  for  the  soldiers,  and  magazines  for  the  stores  and  provisions.  He  is  not  fairly 
settled  before  an  English  fleet  speeds  up  the  St.  Lawrence,  captures  Quebec,  and  carries 
him  off  a  prisoner  to  England.  Then  a  treaty  of  peace  is  signed,  and  the  city  is 
restored  to  France,  Champlain  resuming  his  place  as  governor  of  the  colony.  Thereafter, 
for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  France  rules  unmolested,  and  the  lily-flag  waves  from  the 
heights  of  the  citadel  ;  but  a  storm  impends,  and  soon  England  shall  add  New  France 
to  her  colonial  empire.  Two  armies  contend  for  the  prize:  Wolfe,  on  the  land  below,  at 
the  head  of  the  English  ;  Montcalm,  on  the  heights  above,  at  the  head  of  the  French. 
With  the  armies  thus  arrayed,  Wolfe  is  at  a  disadvantage,  which  he  determines  to  over- 
come by  strategy.  A  narrow  path  twisting  up  the  precipice  is  discovered,  and,  on  a 
starlight  night,  the  valiant  young  general  leads  his  men  through  the  defile.  The  enemy's 
guard  at  the  summit  is  surprised  and  driven  back  ;  the  English  occupy  the  table-land 
which  they  desired,  and  where  they  can  meet  their  antagonists  on  equal  terms.  On  the 
following  day  the  battle  is  fought  :  Montcalm  advances,  and  covers  the  English  with  an 
incessant  fire  ;  Wolfe  is  wounded  in  the  wrist,  and  hastens  from  rank  to  rank  exhorting 
his  men  to  be  steady  and  to  reserve  their  shots.  At  last  the  French  are  within  forty 
yards  of  them,  and  a  deadly  volley  belches  forth.  The  enemy  staggers,  endeavors  to 
press  on,  and  falls  under  the  furious  attack  that  opposes.  Wolfe  is  wounded  twice  more, 
the  last  time  mortally,  but  his  army  is  victorious ;  and,  as  he  sinks  from  his  horse,  the 
French  are  retreating,  and  Montcalm,  too,  is  mortally  wounded. 

Who,  approaching  Quebec  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  is  not  for  a  moment  thus 
lost  in  reverie  over  its  past,  and,  on  entering  the  city,  is  not  charmed  with  the  sharp 
contrasts  the  people  and  their  buildings  afford }  Some  one  has  described  Quebec  as 
resembling  an  ancient  Norman  fortress  of  two  centuries  ago,  that  had  been  encased  in 
amber  and  transported  by  magic  to  Canada,  and  placed  on  the  summit  of  Cape  Dia- 
mond. But,  while  there  are  streets  which  might  have  been  brought,  ready  built,  from 
quaint  old  towns  in  provincial  France,  the  outskirts  of  the  city  are  such  as  Americans 
alone  can  create.  At  one  point  we  may  easily  fancy  ourselves  in  Boulogne  ;  a  few  steps 
farther,  and  a  crooked  lane  in  London  is  recalled  to  us  ;  farther  still,  and  we  are  in  a 
narrow  Roman  street ;  and,  across  the  way,  in  a  handsome  thoroughfare,  we  find  some 
of  the  characteristics  of  New  York.  So,  too,  it  is  with  the  inhabitants,  though  the 
variety  is  not  as  extensive.     Half  the  people  have   manners   and    customs   of  the  French, 


I Illf 


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1-20 


386  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

the  other  half  are  equally  English.  You  hear  French  spoken  as  frequently  as  English, 
but  it  is  French  of  such  a  fashion  as  Parisians  sometimes  confess  themselves  at  a  loss 
to  understand. 

The  Montreal  steamer,  after  passing  Wolfe's  Cove  and  Cape  Diamond,  keeping  the 
city  well  out  of  view,  lands  us  at  an  old  wharf  a  few  yards  above  the  Champlain  Mar- 
ket, where  we  get  our  first  glimpse  at  Quebec.  At  our  back  is  the  placid  river,  with  a 
crowd  of  row-boats  and  sloops  and  schooners  drifting  easily  in  the  stilly  morning  air  ;  to 
the  right  is  the  Market-Hall,  a  pleasing  building  of  important  size,  with  several  rows  of 
broad  stairs  running  from  its  portals  to  the  water's  edge  ;  behind  it  are  the  dormer-win- 
dowed, slated  and  tinned  roofs  of  the  lower  town ;  behind  these,  again,  on  the  heights,  the 
gray  ramparts,  Durham  Terrace,  resting  on  the  buttress  arches  of  the  old  castle  of  St.  Louis, 
the  foliage  of  the  Government  Garden,  and  the  obelisk  erected  to  Wolfe  and  Mont- 
calm. Looking  to  the  left  is  the  citadel,  fair  enough,  and  smiling,  not  frowning,  on  this 
summer's  morning,  with  the  Union  Jack  folded  calmly  around  the  prominent  flag-staff. 
Which  of  all  these  "  objects  of  interest  "  shall  we  "  do  "  first .?  We  debate  the  question, 
and  start  out  undecided.  Once  upon  a  time,  when  Quebec  was  a  garrisoned  town,  the 
English  red-coats  gave  the  streets  a  military  aspect ;  and,  as  we  roam  about,  forgetting 
that  they  have  been  recalled,  we  are  surprised  to  find  so  few  soldiers.  The  military 
works  are  neglected,  and  have  not  kept  pace  with  time.  We  ramble  among  the  fortifi- 
cations ;  here  and  there  is  a  rusty,  displaced  cannon ;  a  crumbling,  moss-covered  wall. 
The  citadel  itself,  so  proudly  stationed,  is  lonely,  quiet,  drowsy,  with  no  martial  splendor 
about  it.  One  can  fancy  that  the  citizens  themselves  might  forget  it,  but  for  the  noon 
and  curfew  gun  that  thunders  out  the  time  twice  a  day.  The  garrison  is  composed  of 
volunteers ;  no  more  do  we  see  the  magnificently-trained  Highlanders,  in  their  fancy 
uniform.  We  are  also  surprised,  but  not  displeased,  at  the  sleepy  atmosphere  that  per- 
vades all ;  for  we  have  been  told  that  the  French  Canadians  are  especially  fond  of  fetes 
and  holidays,  shows  and  processions.  They  might  be  anchorites,  for  all  we  see  of  their 
gayety ;  possibly  they  have  not  yet  arisen  after  the  carouse  of  last  night.  There  is 
a  general  air  of  quiet  that  belongs  to  a  remote  spot  apart  from  the  interests  and 
cares  of  the  outside  world — a  dreamy  languor  that  a  traveller  is  apt  to  declare  absent  in 
the  smallest  of  the  United  States  cities.  He  himself  is  as  much  a  stranger  here  as  in 
London,  and  those  around  him  perceive  his  strangeness.  We  had  not  walked  far,  before 
even  a  pert  little  shoeblack's  inexperienced  eyes  detected  us  as  aliens.  "  He'  yar,  sir ; 
reg'lar  Noo-'ork  s-s-shine  ! "  Down  in  the  lower  town  a  great  fleet  of  vessels  are  at 
moorings,  and  the  wharves  are  crowded  with  men  and  vehicles  ;  but  the  traffic  makes 
astonishingly  little  noise — perhaps  because  it  is  done  with  old-country  method,  and  with- 
out the  impetuosity  that  New -York  people  throw  into  all  their  work. 

In  Breakneck  Stairs,  which  every  tourist  religiously  visits,  we  have  one  of  those 
alleys  that  are  often  seen   in  the    old   towns   of   England  and  France — a  passage,  scarcely 


THE    ST.    LAWRENCE    AND    THE    SAGUENAY. 


587 


Under   Trinity    Rock,    Saguenay. 


fifteen  feet  wide,  between  two  rows  of  leaning  houses,  the  road-bed  consisting  of  several 
successive  flights  of  stairs.  Boot  and  shoe  makers  abound  here,  and  their  old-fashioned 
signs — sometimes  a  golden  boot — adorn  their  still  more  old-fashioned  stores.  The  occu- 
pants are  idly  gossiping  at  their  doors  ;  plainly  enough  they  are  not  overworked.  Yon- 
der are  two  priests  ;   here  some   tourists.      These  are  all   the    sights  we    see  at  Breakneck 


388  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

Stairs.  In  the  evening,  Durham  Terrace  offers  a  telling  contrast  to  the  more  sombre 
quarters  of  the  city.  It  is  one  of  the  finest  promenades  in  the  world  ;  adjoining  are  the 
Government  Gardens ;  from  the  railing  that  surrounds  it,  the  view  down  the  river  is 
enchanting.  Seen  from  the  elevation  of  the  terrace,  the  lower  town,  with  its  tinned 
roofs,  seems  to  be  under  a  veil  of  gold.  It  is  here,  on  this  lofty  esplanade,  that  Quebec 
airs  itself;  and,  at  twilight,  throngs  of  people  lounge  on  benches  near  the  mouths  of 
beetling  cannon,  and  roam  among  the  fountains  and  shrubbery  of  the  Place  d'Armes. 
Such  dressiness,  fashion,  and  liveliness  appear,  that  we  are  almost  induced  to  withdraw 
our  previous  statement  about  the  quiet  character  of  the  city,  and  to  believe  that  it  really 
is  very  gay  and  very  wicked.  But,  as  the  darkness  falls,  the  crowd  begins  to  disperse  ; 
and,  when  the  nine-o'clock  gun  sends  a  good-night  to  the  opposite  shore,  nearly  all  the 
promenaders  have  gone  home  to  bed,  with   Puritan  punctuality. 

On  the  next  day  we  go  to  Montmorency.  We  hire  a  calash,  and  pay  the  driver 
three  dollars  for  taking  us  there  and  back,  a  round  distance  of  sixteen  miles.  The 
calash  is  used  in  summer  only.  It  is  something  like  a  spoon  on  wheels,  the  passenger 
sitting  in  the  bowl  and  the  driver  at  the  point.  We  jolt  across  the  St.  Charles  River 
by  the  Dorchester  Bridge,  and  then  enter  a  macadamized  road  leading  through  a  very 
pretty  country,  filled  with  well  -  to  -  do  residences.  Farther  away,  we  pass  the  Cana- 
dian village  of  Beauport,  and  get  an  insight  of  old  colonial  life.  The  houses  are  such  as 
we  referred  to  in  coming  from  Montreal  to  Quebec — all  alike  in  size,  form,  and  feature. 
Thence  we  follow  an  English  lane  through  sweet-scented  meadows  until  we  arrive  at  the 
falls,  and,  after  paying  a  small  fee,  we  are  admitted  to  some  grounds  where,  from  a 
perch  at  the  very  edge  of  the  rock,  we  can  look  upon  the  fleecy  cataract  as  it  pours  its 
volume  into  the  river.  It  is  the  grandest  sight  we  have  yet  seen  in  the  Canadian  tour. 
Hereabout  the  banks  are  precipitous — two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high — and  covered  with 
luxuriant  verdure  ;  the  falls  are  deep-set  in  a  small  bay  or  chasm,  and  descend  in  a 
sheet,  twenty-five  yards  wide,  broken  midway  by  an  immense  rock  hidden  beneath  the 
seething  foam.  The  surrounding  forms  are  picturesque  in  the  extreme.  In  winter,  the 
guide-book  tells  us,  the  foam  rising  from  the  falls  freezes  into  two  cones  of  solid  ice, 
which  sometimes  attain  a  height  of  one  hundred  feet,  and  the  people  come  from  Quebec 
in  large  numbers  with  their  "  toboggins " — a  sort  of  sleigh  or  sled,  as  those  familiar  with 
Canadian  sports  will  not  need  to  be  informed — with  which  they  toil  to  the  sumiliit  of 
the  cone,  and  thence  descend  with  astonishing  velocity.  Men,  women,  and  children, 
share  in  the  exciting  exercise.  Half  a  mile  above  the  falls  we  visit  the  Natural  Steps, 
where  the  limestone-rock  bordering  on  the  river  has  been  hewn  by  Nature  into  several 
successive  flights  of  steps,  all  remarkably  regular  in  form  ;  and,  in  the  evening,  we  are 
returning  to  Quebec,  which,  as  it  is  seen  from  the  Beauport  road,  strikes  one  as  the 
most  beautiful  city  on  the  continent. 

In  the  morning  we  are    on    board   the    Saguenay    boat,  among  as  varied  a  crowd   as 


3 go  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

might  be  formed  by  the  comminghng  of  the  cabin  and  steerage  passengers  of  an  America- 
bound  ocean-steamer.  Yonder  are  the  people  who  have  come  from  New  York  with  us, 
and  have  shared  all  our  joys  and  sorrows  ;  here  are  some  recent  colonists  bound  on  a 
"  'oliday  'outin' ; "  there  is  a  group  of  half-breeds,  in  richly-colored  dresses ;  and  every- 
where, in  the  cabins  and  on  deck,  are  people  from  Montreal  and  Quebec,  who  are  going 
to  "Salt-water."  At  first  we  imagine  that  "Salt-water"  is  the  name  of  a  landing,  and 
we  look  for  it  in  vain  in  the  time-tables ;  but  presently  a  light  is  thrown  upon  our 
ignorance.  Salt-water  means  Murray  Bay  and  Cacouna,  where  the  Canadians  go  for  their 
sea-bathing,  which  they  cannot  have  at  Quebec,  as  the  water  there  is  fresh.  We  are 
delayed  for  half  an  hour  waiting  for  the  Montreal  boat  ;  but,  as  soon  as  she  arrives,  and 
transfers  a  few  extra  passengers  to  us,  we  start  out  into  the  stream.  For  nearly  an  hour 
we  retrace  by  water  the  trip  we  made  yesterday  by  land,  and  are  soon  abreast  of  the 
Montmorency  Falls,  which  are  seen  to  still  better  advantage  than  on  the  day  before. 
Afar  off,  the  stately  range  of  the  Laurentian  Hills  roll  upward  in  a  delicate  haze ;  and, 
through  the  trees  on  the  summit  of  the  bank,  the  river  Montmorency  shimmers  in  per- 
fect calm,  with  something  like  the  placid  resignation  of  a  brave  soul  conscious  of  an 
approaching  death.  The  stream  is  divided  here  by  the  island  of  Orleans,  a  low-lying 
reach  of  farm-land,  with  groves  of  pine  and  oak  embowering  romantic  little  farm-houses 
and  cottages,  such  as  lovers  dream  of  But,  as  we  journey  on,  this  exquisite  picture 
passes  out  of  view,  and  the  river  widens,  and  the  banks  are  nothing  more  than  indistinct 
blue  lines,  marking  the  boundary  of  the  lonely  waters.  Few  vessels  of  any  kind  meet 
us — occasionally  a  flat-bottomed  scow,  with  a  single  sail,  so  brown  and  ragged  that  the 
wind  will  not  touch  it  ;  or  a  sister-boat  to  ours  ;  and  once  we  meet  one  of  the  Allen- 
line  steamers  coming  in  from  the  ocean,  passengers  swarming  on  her  decks  from  bow- 
sprit to  wheel-house.  We  yawn,  and  read  novels,  and  gossip,  until  the  afternoon  is  far 
advanced,  and  Murray  Bay  is  reached.  About  the  little  landing-place  some  of  the  evidences 
of  fashionable  civilization  are  noticeable,  and,  in  the  background,  is  a  verandaed  hotel  of 
the  period.  But  the  land  around  is  wild  ;  and,  not  far  away,  are  the  birch-bark  huts  of 
an  Indian  tribe.  The  sentiment  of  the  scene  is  depressing,  and,  as  our  steamer  paddles 
off,,  we  cannot  help  thinking  with  Mr.  Howells  that  the  sojourners  who  lounge  idly 
about  the  landing-place  are  ready  to  cry  because  the  boat  is  going  away  to  leave  them 
in  their  loneliness.  At  Cacouna,  more  fashionable  people  are  waiting  for  the  steamer, 
the  arrival  of  which  is  the  event  of  the  day  ;  but  their  gayety  and  chatter  also  seem 
unnatural,  and  they  excite  our  sympathies  much  in  the  same  manner  as  do  the  young 
man  and  woman  standing  alone  on  the  Plymouth  beach  in  Broughton's  "  Return  of  the 
Mayflower."  The  sun  has  set  before  our  steamer  crosses  the  St.  Lawrence  toward  the 
mouth  of  the  Saguenay,  and  black  clouds  are  lowering  in  the  sky  as  we  glide  to  the 
landing  at  Tadoussac.  This  also  is  selected  as  a  watering-place  by  some  Canadians;  but 
the    hotel    is    overcast  by  older  log-cabins,  and  Tadoussac  is  still  the  "  remote,  unfriended, 


THE    ST.    LAWRENCE    AND    THE    SAGUENAY. 


391 


melancholy,  slow  station "  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  that  it  was  a  hundred  years 
ago.  The  captain  grants  his  passengers  two  or  three  hours  ashore,  and  the  opportunity 
is  taken  by  most  of  us  to  visit  the  oldest  church  in  America  north  of  Florida,  which 
Tadoussac  contains  among  its  other  curiosities.  It  is  a  frame  building,  on  a  high,  allu- 
vial bank,  and  the  interior,  as  we  see  it  lighted  by  one  small  taper,  appears  scarcely 
more  than  thirty  feet  square.  A  handsome  altar  is  placed  in  an  octagon  alcove  in  the 
rear,  with  altar-pieces  symbolizing  the  crucifixion ;  and  the  walls  are  adorned  with  two 
pictures,  one  a  scriptural  scene,  the  other  a  portrait  of  the  first  priest  who  visited 
Canada.     We    are    interrupted    in    our    stroll    by    the    steamer's    bell    summoning  us  back. 


St.   Louis    Island,    from   West   Bank   of  Saguenay. 


The  storm-clouds  are  drifting  thickly  across  the  night-sky  ;  the  moon  battles  with  them 
for  an  opening.  Gusts  of  wind  sweep  through  the  firs.  The  sea  has  grown  tumultuous 
in  our  absence,  and,  in  the  increasing  darkness,  we  can  discern  the  billows  breaking  into 
a  curling  fringe  of  white.  The  steamer  starts  out  from  the  jetty,  and  has  not  proceeded 
many  yards  before  the  tempest  beats  down  upon  her  with  all  its  force.  The  moon  is 
lost  behind  the  banks  of  cloud  ;  heavy  drops  patter  on  the  deck.-  In  a  storm  of  wind 
and  rain,  the  elements  in  fiercest  strife,  we  enter  the  dark,  lone  river,  as  into  a  mysterious 
land. 

It    is    not    surprising   that    the    Saguenay,  with    its    massive,  desolate    scenery,  should 


392 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Point  Cr^pe,   near  the   Mouth  of  the  Saguenay. 

* 

have  inspired  early  mariners  with 
terror.  To  them  it  was  a  river 
with  marvellous  surroundings,  with 
an  unnavigable  current,  immeasur- 
able depths,  terrible  hurricanes,  in- 
accessible and  dangerous  rocks,  de- 
structive eddies  and  whirlpools  ;  but,  in  later  days,  treasures  were  discovered  in  its 
bounds,  and  it  was  frequented  by  vessels  in  search  of  the  walrus  and  the  whale. 
The  old  superstitions  are  no  longer  entertained  ;  but  the  river  is  undisturbed  —  the 
walrus  and  the  whale  have  been  driven  away,  and  lumber-rafts,  coming  down  from 
the  wilderness,  are  all  that  usually  stir  it.  The  Indians  called  it  Pitchitanichetz,  the 
meaning  of  which,  you  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn,  we  could  not  discover.  It  is 
formed  by  the  junction  of  two  outlets  of  St.  John's  Lake,  which  lies  in  the  wilderness, 
one  hundred  and  thirty  miles  northwest  of  Tadoussac,  and  covers  five  hundred  square 
miles  of  surface.  From  some  distance  below  the  lake  the  river  passes  over  cliffs  in  sev- 
eral magnificent  cascades,  rushing  between  rocky  banks  from  two  hundred  to  one  thou- 
sand feet  high  ;  and,  -for  a  distance  of  sixty  miles  from  the  mouth,  it  is  about  one  mile 
wide.  In  some  parts,  soundings  cannot  be  found  with  three  hundred  and  thirty  fathoms ; 
and,  at  all  points,  the  water  is  exceedingly  deep,  presenting  an  inky-black  appearance. 
Fish  may  be  caught  in  great  abundance,  including  salmon,  trout,  sturgeon,  and  pickerel. 


THE    ST.    LAWRENCE    AND     THE    SAGUENAY.  393 

During  the  night  of  storm,  the  steamer  has  threaded  her  way  through  the  hills,  and, 
on  a  glorious  morning,  we  arrive  at  a  little  village  in  Ha-ha  Bay,  the  nominal  head  of 
navigation.  The  scenery  is  less  massive  and  sullen  here  than  at  any  other  point,  and 
the  character  of  the  crowd  at  the  landing  is  diversified  in  the  extreme.  There  are  lum- 
bermen, Scotch  Highlanders,  habitants,  American  tourists,  Canadian  tourists,  English  tour- 
ists, and  aboriginals.  Some  of  the  habitants  have  brought  with  them  little  canoes,  filled 
with  wild-strawberries,  which  they  offer  for  sale  ;  and,  during  our  detention  here,  there  is 
considerable  bustle.  We  then  resume  our  journey  down  the  dark  river.  Ha-ha  Bay, 
with  its  shrubbery  and  beaches,  is. soon  out  of  sight;  we  are  sailing  between  two  tower- 
ing walls  of  rock,  so  dreary,  so  desolate,  that  those  of  us  who  are  impressionable  become 
dejected  and  nervous.  The  river  has  no  windings  ;  few  projecting  bluffs  ;  no  farms  or 
villages  on  its  banks.  Nature  has  formed  it  in  her  sternest  mood,  lavishing  scarcely  one 
grace  on  her  monstrous  offspring.  Wherever  a  promontory  juts  out  one  side  of  the 
river,  a  corresponding  indentation  is  found  upon  the  opposite  shore  ;  and  this  has  been 
made  the  basis  of  a  theory  that  the  chasm  through  which  the  black  waters  flow  was 
formed  by  an  earthquake's  separation  of  a  solid  mountain.  We  are  willing  to  believe 
almost  any  thing  about  its  origin  ;  it  fills  us  with  grief,  and  our  little  bride  is  actually 
crying  over  it.  The  forms  are  rude,  awkward,  gigantic  ;  but,  like  giants,  unable  to  carry 
themselves.  There  are  no  grassy  meadows ;  little  greenery  of  any  kind,  in  fact ;  only  some 
dwarfed  red-pines  living  a  poor  life  among  the  rocks.  It  is  a  river  of  gloom,  marked  with 
primitive  desolation.  Occasionally  an  island  lies  in  our  path,  but  it  is  as  rugged  and  bar- 
ren as  the  shore,  formed  out  of  primitive  granite,  offering  no  relief  to  the  terrible  monot- 
ony that  impresses  us.  And,  once  in  a  while,  a  ravine  breaks  the  precipitous  walls,  and 
exposes  in  its  darkling  hollow  the  white  foam  of  a  mountain-torrent.  Near  such  a 
place  we  find  a  saw-mill,  and  some  attempt  at  a  settlement  that  has  failed  dismally. 
We  think  of  passages  in  Dante  ;  of — 

"  The  dismal  shore  that  all  the  woes 
Hems  in  of  all  the  universe." 

The  water  is  skimmed  by  no  birds,  nor  is  there  a  sound  of  busy  animal  life.  Only  now 
and  then  a  black  seal  tosses  its  head  above  the  surface,  or  dives  below  at  our  approach, 
from  some  projection  where  he  has  been  quietly  sunning  himself  Masses  of  perpendicu- 
lar rock  rise  above  the  surface  to  an  unbroken  height  of  over  one  thousand  feet,  and 
extend  still  farther  below.  What  wonder  that  the  sensitive  little  woman  is  in  tears  over 
the  awful  gloom  Nature  exhibits  ?  Of  course,  there  are  some  of  our  fellow-tourists  who 
are  not  impressed  with  any  thing  except  the  immensity  of  the  spaces,  but  it  is  reserved 
for  her  finer  senses  to  hear  Nature's  voice  in  the  savage  tones  of  the  rocks,  and  to  weep 
at  its  sternness. 

Presently  we    near    Trinity  Rock    and    Cape  Eternity,  and  one  of  the  crew  brmgs  a 

121 


394 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


bucket  of  pebbles  on  to  the  forward  deck.  As  these  two  capes  are  accounted  among 
the  grandest  sights  of  the  voyage,  there  is  a  flutter  of  anticipation  among  the  passengers, 
and  the  decks  are  crowded  again.  A  sHght  curve  brings  us  into  Trinity  Bay,  a  semi- 
circular estuary,  flanked  at  the  entrance  by  two  precipices,  each  rising,  almost  perpendicu- 
larly, eighteen  hundred  feet  above  the  river.  The  steepest  is  Trinity,  so  called  because 
of  the  three  distinct  peaks  on  its  northern  summit,  and  that  on  the  other  side  is  Cape 
Eternity.  Trinity  presents  a  face  of  fractured  granite,  which  appears  almost  white  in 
contrast  to  the  sombre  pine-clad  front  of  Eternity.  And  now,  as  the  boat  seems  to  be 
within  a  few  yards  of  them,  the  passengers  are  invited  to  see  if  they  can  strike  them 
with  the  pebbles  before  introduced.  Several  efforts  are  made,  but  the  stones  fall  short 
of  their  mark,  in  the  water.  For  the  rest  of  the  day  we  are  toiling  through  like  wilder- 
nesses of  bowlders,  precipices,  and  mountains.  We  bid  adieu  to  Trinity  and  Eternity  at 
Point  Noir,  thread  the  desolate  mazes  of  St.  Louis  Island,  and  soon  are  passing  Point 
Crepe,  where  the  rocks,  the  everlasting  rocks,  look  in  the  distance  like  the  channel  of  a 
dried-up  cataract.  Toward  night  we  are  in  the  St.  Lawrence  again,  and  as  we  speed 
across  the  brighter  waters  the  moon  is  rising  over  Murray  Bay,  and  the  wreck  of  a 
canoe  reposing  on  the  low  beach  reminds  us  of  the  desert  through  which  we  have 
passed.  , 


Mount    Murray    Bay,  St.  Lawrence. 


THE  EASTERN  SHORE,  FROM  BOSTON  TO  PORTLAND. 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    J.     DOUGLAS    WOODWARD. 


•'"^^^ev 


THE  coast  of  New  England  between  Bos- 
ton and  Portland  is  for  the  most  part 
irregular  and  rocky,  and  in  many  spots  pictu- 
resque. Nature  seems  to  have  supplied  it  with 
every  variety  of  sea-coast  aspect  and  beauty,  from 

the   jagged    mass    of   frowning    and    rough -worn         a--^   -^  ~-^^_-  _  z--!^.^  -.^  ^  I 

rock  overhanging  the  waters  to  the  long,  smooth 

reach  of  broad,  curving  beaches,  and  the  duller  landscape  of  green  morass  extending  un- 
broken to  the  water's  edge.  There  is  no  coast  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard  which  presents  a 
wider  choice  for  the  lover  of  marine  pleasures ;  for  the  rich  city-man  and  his  family  who 
seek  in  proximity  to  the  ocean  their  summer  recreation  from  the  cares  and  excitements  of 
the  year;  for  the  artist  searching  to  reproduce  on  canvas  the  visible  romance  of  Nature; 


396 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


for  the  gay  camping-out  parties  of  students,  of  youths,  and  maidens ;  and  for  those  whose 
health  is  supposed  to  derive  benefit  from  the  fresh  ocean-breezes,  the  bathings,  and  the 
pastimes  offered  by  the  salt-water  expanse.  Thus,  Bostonians  and  Portlanders  have  no 
need  to  go  far  from  home  to  find  delightful  spots  for  the  summer  holidays.  Within  con- 
venient distance  of  either    place    are    spots  where   paterfa7nilias    may  deposit    his    family 


Swallows'    Cave,    Nahant. 


for  the  summer  in  a  long-porched  hotel,  or  build  for  them  a  cosey,  picturesque  cottage, 
quite  within  daily  access  from  his  business  haunts,  whither  he  may  go  and  repose  over- 
night, and  each  morning  return  invigorated  to  the  labors  of  office  or  counting-room. 

The  picturesqueness  of  the   Eastern  shore  betrays  itself  as  soon  as  you  have  steamed 
away  from  the  Boston  docks.     Eccentric  and  irregular  peninsulas  of  land,  abruptly  widen- 


THE    EASTERN   SHORE. 


397 


ing  and  narrowing,  now  a  rriere  thread  between  water  and  water,  now  a  wide,  hilly  space, 
are  encountered  at  once.  East  Boston  stands  upon  one  of  these,  and  presents  a  crowded, 
rather  smoky  aspect,  with  its  many  chimneys,  its  well-filled  docks,  and  its  elevation  at 
the  extremity,  crowned  with  the  quarter  of  private  residences.  The  steamboat  is  forced 
to  make  many  a  curve  and  winding,  and,  shortly  after  leaving  East  Boston,  passes 
through  a  straitened  channel  between  the  sharp,  narrow  Point  Shirley,  a  mere  needle  of 
a  peninsula,  and  the  irregularly-shaped  Deer  Island,  with  its  spacious  Almshouse,  shaped 
like  a  Latin  cross,  and  its  ample  accommodation  for  the  paupers  of  the  neighboring  city. 
As  you  proceed  through  the  harbor,  the  eye  catches  sight  of  many  islands  of  various 
dimension  and  contour — some  green  with  lawns,  others  bleak  and  arid  with  herbless 
sand  and  rock ;  here  surmounted  by  a  fort,  there  a  hospital  or  house  of  correction, 
sometimes  an  hotel  whither  excursions  are  made  in  the  summer  at  popular    prices.      The 


The   Old   Fort,    Marblehead. 

southern  coast  looms  irregular  and  sometimes  imposing  behind,  while  a  glimpse  is  had 
of  similar  eccentricities  and  rough  beauties  of  Nature  in  the  direction  whither  you  are 
proceeding. 

After  passing  around  Point  Shirley,  the  broad  stretch  of  Chelsea  Beach  comes  into 
view,  extending  from  the  lower  part  of  the  peninsula  to  Lynn  Bar.  This  is  the  favorite 
resort  of  the  less  well-to-do  classes  of  Boston,  while  here  and  there  are  sea-side  resi- 
dences which  betray  the  taste  of-  a  wealthier,  social  class  for  this  neighborhood.  There 
are  convenient  and  cosey  hostelries,  furnishing  refreshment  to  the  merry-makers,  and 
ample  provision  for  the  sea-bathing,  which  is  so  refreshing  to  the  denizen  of  the  busy 
and  dusty  city. 

Beyond  Pine's  Point,  which  is  the  strip  of  land  at  the  northern  end  of  Chelsea 
Beach,  the  sea  makes  one  of  its  abrupt  invasions  into  the  line  of  coast,  and  has  scooped 


\iL.. 


398 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


out  there  a  miniature  har- 
bor, with  uneven  coast  bor- 
derings,  called  Lynn  Bar, 
This  is  the  inlet  to  the 
thrifty  "  leather-city,"  which 
stands  just  by,  intent  on 
supplying  mankind  with 
shoes.  Lynn  Bar  is  bound- 
ed on  its  eastern  side  by 
the  long  and  slightly  curved 
western  side  of  the  peninsu- 
la of  Nahant.  From  this 
point  of  view,  you  form  no 
conception  of  the  noble  pict- 
uresque beauties  and  archi- 
tectural decorations  which 
this  bold  and  strangely- 
shaped  promontory  affords. 
It  is  only  when  you  have 
landed,  and  advanced  to  an 
elevated  position,  that  one 
of  the  most,  if  not  the  most 
striking  landscape  on  the 
Eastern  shore  presents  itself 
to  the  sight. 

Nahant  is  about  eight 
miles  northeast  from  Bos- 
ton, and  is  easily  reached,  in 
less  than  an  hour,  from  the 
city  by  boat.  Of  all  the 
sea-side  resorts  of  the  vicin- 
ity, it  is  justly  the  most 
sought  ;  for  neither  Cohas- 
set,  Nantasket,  nor  Scitu- 
ate,  on  the  southern  shore, 
can  compare  with  it,  as 
combining  each  several  va- 
riety of  marine  scenery  and 
pleasure     advantages.       The 


THE    EASTERN   SHORE. 


399 


peninsula,  as  it  stretches  out  from  the  main -land,  is  at  first  a  narrow  neck,  crossed 
by  a  few  steps,  for  some  distance  almost  straight.  On  one  side  is  the  pretty  har- 
bor of  Lynn ;  on  the  other .  a  noble,  wide  beach,  sweeping  in  a  direct  line  for  some 
distance,  then  curving,  in  a  short  semicircle,  round  the  rocky  cliffs  beyond  which  lies 
the  scarcely  less  lovely  and  famous  Swampscott.  This  narrow  neck  begins  anon  to 
thicken  irregularly,  with  here  and  there  a  sudden  eruption  of  rugged  rock,  and  finally 
broadens  into  a  rocky,  uneven  eminence.  This  promontory  is  shaped  like  a  horse- 
shoe. On  the  two  sides  the  shore  is  rocky,  with  its  Black  Rocks,  West  Cliff,  Castle 
Rock,  Saunders's  Ledge,  Natural  Bridge,  and  so  on ;  while  in  the  convex  side  of  the 
horseshoe    are    several    exquisite    diminutive    beaches,    lying    below    the  jagged    eminences. 


,H't>  »-•" 


Norman's   Woe,    Gloucester. 


A  writer,  describing  the  rocky  beauty  of  Nahant,  says:  "The  rocks  are  torn  into  such 
varieties  of  form,  and  the  beaches  are  so  hard  and  smooth,  that  all  the  beauty  of  wave- 
motion  and  the  whole  gamut  of  ocean-eloquence  are  here  offered  to  eye  and  ear.  All 
the  loveliness  and  majesty  of  the  ocean  are  displayed  around  the  jagged  and  savage- 
browed  cliffs  of  Nahant." 

Few  marine  localities,  moreover,  have  been  so  elegantly  adorned  by  the  wealth 
which  calls  forth  the  best  efforts  of  the  architectural  art.  Here  are  noble  sea-side  resi- 
dences— of  granite,  brick,  and  wood — Swiss  cottages  and  French  villas,  some  shrouded  in 
ivies  and  parasites,  nearly  all  having,  in  spacious  bay-windows  and  broad,  sheltered  piazzas, 
delightful  outlooks  upon  the  ocean.      Nor   has    the    naturally  bleak  and  craggy  peninsula 


GLOUCESTER     AND     ROCKPORT. 


,\n 


I 


.^' 


^x 


fin' 

O 
ffi 


Q 


THE    EASTERN   SHORE.  .  401 

refused  to  nourish  beautiful  lawns  and  gardens,  amply  sprinkled  with  flower -parterres, 
betraying  the  artistic  care  which  riches  are  able  to  procure. 

The  artist  has  reproduced  two  of  the  most  striking  of  the  many  natural  wonders 
which  the  eternal  lashing  of  the  waves  has,  wrought  out  of  the  obstinate  rock-masses 
about  Nahant.  Pulpit  Rock  lies  just  by  the  lower  eastern  shore  of  the  horseshoe,  be- 
tween the  Natural  Bridge  and  Sappho's  Rock.  It  is  a  huge,  jagged  mass,  rising  some 
thirty  feet  above  the  water,  with  roughly-square  sides,  broad  and  heavy  below,  but  pro- 
jecting abruptly  into  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  at  the  top.  At  a  little  distance,  the 
upper  part  appears  like  a  pulpit,  upon  which  some  Titan  preacher's  Bible  and  prayer- 
book  have  been  laid  ready  for  service — hence  the  name  ;  and  here,  if  one  is  bold  enough 
to  venture  up  the  slippery,  moss-grown  sides,  is  a  famous  eyry,  whence  to  contemplate 
the  sea,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  its  wash  and  roar.  The  Swallows'  Cave  is  farther  on,  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  eastern .  curve  of  the  horseshoe,  between  the  steamboat-wharf  and 
Pea  Island.  It  is  a  long,  gloomy  cavern,  overhung  by  a  dome  of  irregular  strata,  heaved 
together  in  strange,  shelving  layers.  The  cave  is  eight  feet  high  and  seventy  long,  and 
derives  its  name  from  its  having  long  been  occupied  by  colonies  of  swallows,  which  built 
their  nests  in  its  sombre  crevices,  and  flew  in  and  out  in  fluttering  multitudes.  But 
the  invasion  of  their  retreat  by  curiosity-seekers  has  expelled  them  thence.  The  cave 
may  be  entered  for  some  distance  by  a  row-boat ;  and  here  is  a  favorite  cool  haunt  in 
the  hot  summer  days,  when  the  beaches  are  insufferable.  Nahant  presents  other  wonders, 
but  none  more  striking.  There  are  John's  Peril,  a  great,  yawning  fissure  in  one  of  the 
cliffs ;  the  huge,  oval-shaped  mass  called  Egg  Rock  ;  a  beautiful  natural  structure,  which 
might  almost  be  taken  for  a  savage  fortress,  Castle  Rock,  with  battlements,  embrasures, 
buttresses,  and  turrets,  the  only  kind  of  counterpart  to  the  castle-ruins  w^iich  so  richly 
deck  European  scenes  that  our  new  America  affords ;  a  boiling  and  seething  Caldron 
Cliff ;  a  deep-bass  Roaring  Cavern ;  and  a  most  grotesque  yet  noble  natural  arch,  with 
a  cone-like  top,  and  leading  to  a  natural  room  in  the  rock,  which  is  known  as  Irene's 
Grotto. 

Beyond  the  broad  Long  Beach,  which  sweeps  from  the  promontory  of  Nahant  in 
almost  a  straight  line  to  Red  Rock,  is  the  not  less  beautiful  and  fashionable  sea-side 
resort  of  Swampscott,  with  its  Dread  Ledge,  and  pretty  beach,  and  clusters  of  charming 
and  lavishly-adorned  marine  villas ;  while  just  northeastward  of  Swampscott  juts  out  far 
into  the  sea  the  rude  and  uneven  and  historic  peninsula  of  Marblehead.  This  spot 
was  one  of  the  first  settled  in  New  England,  the  town  of  Marblehead  having  been  incor- 
porated by  the  Puritan  colony  just  fifteen  years  after  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims  at 
Plymouth.  So  bleak  and  bare  are  the  Marblehead  rocks  that  Whitefield  asked,  in  won- 
der, "  Where  do  they  bury  their  dead } "  It  is  a  quaint  old  settlement,  with  many  queer 
houses    stiU    standing  which  were    built    and    occupied    before    the    Revolution.      The    sea 

penetrates  the  peninsula  with  a  narrow  and  deep  little  harbor ;  and  it  is  around  this  that 

122 


402 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


o 


the  town  has  clustered.  Once 
on  a  time  Marblehead  was  fa- 
mous for  its  fishermen  ;  and  it 
is  the  scene  of  Whittier's  poem, 
"  Skipper  Ireson's  Ride."  A 
hundred  years  ago  it  was,  next 
to  Boston,  the  most  populous 
town  in  Massachusetts.  Now 
its  character  has  almost  wholly 
changed  from  the  olden  time, 
for  it  has  become  a  brisk  cen- 
tre of  the  shoe  -  manufacture. 
The  Old  Fort  is  a  plain, 
hoary -looking  edifice,  standing 
on  the  rugged  slope  of  the 
promontory  looking  toward  the 
sea. 

Just  around  the  extremity 
of  Marblehead  are  the  harbor 
and  the  still  more  ancient 
Puritan  settlement  of  Salem. 
Seven  years  after  the  landing 
at  Plymouth,  the  district  be- 
tween the  "  great  river  called 
Merrimac"  and  the  Charles  was 
set  off  as  a  separate  colony ; 
and  the  year  afterward  Endicott 
selected  Salem  as  the  capital 
of  this  colony.  It  was  called 
Salem,  "  from  the  peace  which 
they  had  and  hoped  in  it."  Of 
all  New  -  England  towns,  it 
bears  most  plainly  the  stamp 
of  a  venerable  antiquity.  It  is 
a  grave  and  staid  place,  and 
there  are  still  streets  largely 
composed  of  the  stately  man- 
sions of  the  colonial  and  ma- 
rine aristocracy  ;   for  Salem  was 


THE    EASTERN   SHORE. 


403 


once  not  only  a  metropolis,  but  a  port  teeming  with  lordly  East-Indiamen,  and  ware- 
houses packed  with  the  choicest  fabrics  and  spices  of  the  Orient.  It  is,  commercially, 
a  stranded  city,  reposing  upon  its  memories,  and  brimful  of  quaint  and  striking  tradi- 
tions.     It    has   its    antiquarian    museums    and    its  historic    buildings,  and   here   is  sacredly 


Point   of   Cape  Ann,    from   Cedar   Avenue,    Pigeon   Cove. 


preserved  the  original  charter  granted  by  Charles  I.  to  Massachusetts  Bay.  Here,  too, 
is  the  oldest  church  still  standing  in  New  England,  erected  in  1634,  and  whose  first 
pastor  was  Roger  Williams.  Salem  was  the  town  of  witches ;  and  it  was  on  the  hill 
represented  by  the  artist,  from  which  a  fine  view  of  the   picturesque  and  drowsy  town  is 


404 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


had,  that  the  old  women  who  were 
suspected  of  dealing  in  charms  and 
spells  were  incontinently  hanged  by 
the  grim  old  settlers. 

In  skirting  the  coast,  after  is- 
suing from  Salem  Harbor,  you  al- 
most immediately  reach  the  broad 
and  far-projecting  peninsula  at  the 
end  of  which  is  Cape  Ann,  and 
which  forms  the  northern  boun- 
dary of  Massachusetts  Bay.  Included  between  this  and  Scituate,  on  the  south,  is 
the  great,  semicircular  basin  which  narrows  into  the  spacious  harbor  of  Boston.  The 
coast  between  Salem  and  Gloucester  is  studded  with  spots  at  once  naturally  attrac- 
tive and  historically  interesting.  The  rocky  Lowell's  Island,  a  famous  destination  for 
summer  excursions,  appears  in  full  view  from  Salem.  Opposite  to  it,  on  the  main- 
land,   is    Beverley    Beach,    with    the    old    town   of    Beverley,    but    a    few    years    younger 


THE    EASTERN    SHORE.  405 

than  Salem,  in  the  near  background.  From  one  of  the  promenades  here  a  fine  view  is 
had  of  the  sea,  with  its  sprinkhng  of  forts  and  islands.  A  little  to  the  north,  inland,  is 
Wenham,  noted  for  a  charming  lake,  and  the  spot  of  which  an  old  English  traveller 
of  two  centuries  ago  said,  "Wenham  is  a  delicious  paradise;"  while  beyond  is  Ipswich, 
with  its  "  healthy  hills,"  and  its  ancient  female  seminary,  where  the  Andover  students, 
says  a  venerable  writer,  "  are  wont  to  take  to  themselves  wives  of  the  daughters  of  the 
Puritans."  The  quaint  village  of  Manchester  lies  on  the  rugged  shore ;  and,  soon  after 
passing  it,  the  harbor  of  Gloucester  is  entered. 

Gloucester  is  a  characteristic  New-England  sea-coast  town.  It  is  the  metropolis  of 
the  Northern  fisheries.  Its  harbor  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  attractive  on  the 
coast ;  and  the  town  rises  gradually  from  the  wharves,  presenting  at  once  the  aspect  of 
venerable  age  and  of  present  activity.  All  around  it  are  fine  points  of  view  seaward, 
beaches,  and  rocky  cliffs,  with  a  more  generous  share  of  the  relief  of  verdure  than  along 
the  more  southerly  coast.  Interspersed  with  the  residences  of  the  retired  captains  and 
well-to-do  fishermen,  who  form  a  large  portion  of  the  population,  are  fine  mansions  used 
as  summer  residences ;  for  Gloucester,  as  well  as  its  vicinity,  is  a  favorite  resort.  Many 
and  various  are  the  scenes  in  the  neighborhood,  which  curiosity,  wonder,  and  love  of  the 
beautiful,  have  sought  out  among  the  rocks  and  inlets.  Of  one  of  these  Longfellow  has 
written  in  "  The  Wreck  of  the   Hesperus : " 

"  And  fast  through   the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through   the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 
Like  a  sheeted  ghost  the  vessel  swept 
Toward   the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe." 

Norman's  Woe  is,  indeed,  a  drear  and  sombre  mass  of  rocks,  lying  just  beyond  the 
shrub-fringed  shore,  where  many  a  vessel  has  struck  against  the  ragged  reefs  in  the 
northeast  storms,  though  on  a  calm  summer's  day  it  adds  one  of  the  elements  of  a 
beautiful  marine  landscape.  Near  by  are  other  curiosities,  attractive  to  the  sight-seers 
who  make  their  headquarters  in  the  vicinity.  Among  them,  perhaps  the  most  notable  is 
Rafe's  Chasm,  an  enormous  fissure  in  the  irregular  and  high-piled  ledge,  which  yawns 
into  the  rock  a  hundred  feet,  and  pierces  it  to  a  depth  of  fifty  feet.  Here  the  impris- 
oned waves  at  times,  struggle  with  fierce  and  sonorous  fury,  the  noise  of  their  roar,  heard 
long  before  the  spot  is  reached,  endowing  them,  in  the  fancy,  with  the  reality  of  living 
though  insensate  savagery.  Not  far  off  is  another  marvellous  fissure  in  the  trap-rock ; 
and  beyond  is  the  bright  and  cheerful  colony  of  summer  villas  which  have  clustered 
around  Goldsmith's  Point. 

Cape  Ann  is  really  an  island,  being  separated  from  the  main-land  by  Squam  River 
and  a  canal  called  the  Cut.  Its  general  appearance  is  rugged  and  rocky,  with  granite 
hills  and  ledges,  in  some    places    craggy  and    bald,  in    others    grown    over   with    wild    and 


POWJ««  H  NH 


PORTSMOUTH     AND     ISLES     OF     SHOALS. 


THE    EASTERN   SHORE.  407 

picturesque  forests.  From  Tompson's  Mountain  the  excursionist  obtains  a  superb  view, 
not  only  of  the  sea  and  immediate  coast,  but  of  Massachusetts  Bay  and  Boston,  with 
the  yellow  dome  of  the  State-House  looming  in  the  distance,  on  the  south,  and  Mount 
Monadnock,  in  New  Hampshire,  in  the  northwest.  Below  may  be  seen  broad  marshes, 
beautified  by  an  abundance  of  magnolias  and  water-lilies,  with  wild,  entangled  dells  and 
winding  brooks,  orchards  and  meadows,  and  waving  fields  of  grain.  Cape  Ann  is  noted 
for  its  trees  and  flora.  Here  grow  picturesque  tracts  of  woodland,  contrasting  pleasantly 
with  the  great  gray  rocks  and  the  azure  sea ;  there  are  the  oak,  the  birch,  the  maple,  and 
the  yellow -pine,  red -cedars,  and  the  beautiful  red-gum  tree;  while  the  wealth  of  wild- 
flowers — masses  of  roses  perfuming  the  air,  the  trailing  arbutus,  dog's-tooth  violets,  tender 
wind-flowers,  innocents  and  sassafras,  columbines  and  wake -robins — makes  the  marshy 
fields  and  ledge  -  crevices  glow  with  a  kaleidoscope  of  color  and  exquisite  botanic 
textures. 

Only  less  romantic  than  Nahant  are  the  outermost  shores  of  Cape  Ann,  while  the 
ample  foliage  adds  a  feature  which  even  the  gardening-art  cannot  impart  to  the  more 
southerly  resort.  Pigeon  Cove,  especially,  has  in  these  later  days  become  a  noted  water- 
ing-place ;  for  here  is  not  only  a  noble  view  of  the  waters,  but  the  opportunity  to  enjoy 
many  a  delightful  excursion  amid  the  lovely  scenes  and  marvellous  sculpture  which  Na- 
ture has  provided.  The  little  place  has  been  provided  with  wide  avenues  and  promenades, 
with  groves  of  oak  and  pine,  which  lead  to  striking  landscape-views — among  them  the 
Breakwater,  which  forms  the  outer  wall  of  the  snug  little  cove,  and  Singer's  Bluff,  which 
overhangs  the  sea. 

Passing  from  the  varied  beauties  of  Pigeon  Cove,  with  its  alternate  ruggedness, 
glistening  beach,  and  luxuriant  foliage,  the  northern  side  of  Cape  Ann  is  crossed  by  an 
ancient  road,  which  at  times  enters  beneath  an  arching  of  willows,  and  again  emerges  in 
sight  of  the  waves  and  sails.  In  a  short  while  Annisquam  is  reached,  and  then  the  ven- 
erable sea-side  village  of  Essex,  just  where  the  peninsula  rejoins  the  main-land.  The 
coast  for  a  while  becomes  little  notable  for  any  peculiar  characteristics  of  picturesque- 
ness,  until  the  broad,  bay -like  mouth  of  the  "great"  river  Merrimac  is  approached. 
From  its  entrance,  the  old,  historic  town  of  Newburyport,  surmounting  an  abrupt  decliv- 
ity, some  three  miles  up  the  broad  and  rapid  river,  is  espied.  Like  Salem  and  Marble- 
head,  it  is  one  of  those  antique  coast-towns  which  have,  to  a  large  degree,  lost  their 
maritime  importance,  while  preserving  the  relics  and  mementos  of  a  former  commercial 
prosperity.  Few  places  more  abound  with  old  traditions  and  family  histories,  and  few 
inspire  more  pride  in  their  annals  and  past  glories  in  the  breasts  of  the  natives. 

The  shore  between  Newburyport  and  Portsmouth  is  almost  continuously  straight  and 
even.  The  abrupt  eccentricities  of  bowlder  and  storm-hewed  rock-masses  have  nearly  dis- 
appeared. Long  and  sunny  beaches  have  taken  the  place  of  craggy  peninsulas  and 
yawning  fissures,  sinuous  inlets  and  shapeless  projections.     Salisbury,  Hampton,  and   Rye, 


4o8 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Caswell's    Peak,    Star    Island. 


occupying    the    larger    portion 
of  the  brief  coast  which  New 
Hampshire  possesses,  are    long 
stretches    of  sand,   interspersed 
here    and  there  with   rocks,  but  presenting  rather 
the  softer  and  more  cheerful  than  the  rugged  and 
awful    aspects    of    marine    Nature.      Colonies   of 
cosey  sea-side  cottages,  and  large   summer   hotels, 
line  the  shores;  and,  in  July  and  August,  Hamp- 
ton   and    Rye    Beaches    are    alive   with    carriages, 
bathers,  and  saunterers  on  the  long,  surf-washed  reaches. 

Portsmouth,  like  Newburyport,  is  situated  on  a  river-bank,  some  three  miles  from 
the  open  sea,  there  being  a  spacious  bay  between  it  and  the  Maine  shore,  with  an  island 
directly  in  its  mouth.  "  There  are  more  quaint  houses  and  interesting  traditions  in  Ports- 
mouth," says  one  writer,  "than  in  any  other  town  of  New  England" — a  proposition, 
however,  which  the  townsmen  of   Newburyport  and  Salem  would  eagerly  dispute.      It  is, 


THE    EASTERN   SHORE. 


409 


indeed,  a  singularly  venerable  and  tranquil-looking  old  place,  with  many  irregular,  shaded 
streets,  which  look  as  if  they  had  been  quietly  slumbering  for  many  generations.  Its  his- 
tory is  full  of  incident,  and  connected  with  many  of  the  stirring  events  of  colonial  and 
Revolutionary  days.  Indeed,  Portsmouth  was  settled  as  long  ago  as  1623,  and  was  first 
called  "  Strawberry  Bank,"  from  the  exceeding  quantity  of  strawberries  which  were 
found  growing  in  its  vicinity.  It  was  at  first  fortified  with  palisades,  to  secure  it  from 
Indian  depredations ;  and  many  were  the  perils  through  which  it  passed  in  the  early  days. 
After  the  Revolutiort,  a  French  traveller  found  it  with  "  a  thin  population,  many  houses  in 
ruins,  women  and  children  in  rags,  and  every  thing  announcing  decline."  But,  speedily, 
Portsmouth  revived,  and  became  a  busy  and  thrifty  port ;  and  so  it  continues  to  this  day. 
The  chief  natural  attraction  in  the  vicinity  of   Portsmouth    is   the    Isles  of   Shoals,  a 


Portland,    from    Peak's    Island. 


133 


4IO  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

group  of  eight  bare  and  rugged  islands,  lying  about  nine  miles  off  the  coast,  communi- 
cated with  by  a  comfortable  little  steamboat,  and  provided  with  hotels  and  cottages  for 
summer  visitors.  The  isles  are  small  in  extent,  the  largest — Appledore — only  containing 
about  three  hundred  and  fifty  acres.  From  the  main-land  they  appear  shadowy,  almost 
fairy-like,  in  their  dim  outline.  As  the  steamboat  approaches,  they  separate  into  distinct 
elevations  of  rock,  all  having  a  bleak  and  barren  aspect,  with  little  vegetation,  and  having 
jagged  reefs  running  far  out  in  all  directions  among  the  waves.  Appledore,  the  principal 
island  of  the  group,  rises  in  the  shape  of  a  hog's  back,  and  is  the  least  irregular  in 
appearance.  Its  ledges  rise  some  seventy-five  feet  above  the  sea,  and  it  is  divided  by  a 
narrow,  picturesque  little  valley,  wherein  are  here  and  there  timid  scraps  of  shrubbery, 
and  where  are  situated  the  hotel  and  its  chalets,  the  only  buildings  on  the  island.  The 
solitude  and  grandeur  of  the  sea  are  to  be  enjoyed  to  the  fullest  on  these  gaunt  rocks, 
in  whose  interstices  many  a  lonely  nook  may  be  discovered  where,  fanned  by  cool 
breezes  of  pure  sea-air,  the  marine  landscape  may  be  contemplated  amid  a  surrounding 
stillness  broken  only  by  the  lash,  murmur,  and  trickling  in  and  out  of  the  waves.  Just 
by  Appledore  is  Smutty-Nose  Island,  low,  flat,  and  insidious,  on  w^hose  black  reefs  many 
a  stalwart  vessel  has  been  torn  to  destruction.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  off  is  the  most 
picturesque  of  the  island-cluster.  Star  Island,  with  its  odd  little  village  of  Gosport,  the 
quaint  towered  and  steepled  church  of  which  crowns  the  crest  of  its  highest  point ;  and 
just  by  is  Scavey's  Island.  On  the  west,  toward  the  main-land,  is  Londoner's,  jagged  and 
shapeless,  with  a  diminutive  beach ;  while  two  miles  away  is  the  most  forbidding  and 
dangerous  of  all  these  islands.  Duck  Island,  many  of  whose  ledges  are  hidden  insidiously 
beneath  the  water  at  high  tide,  and  at  low  tide  are  often  seen  covered  with  the  big,  white 
sea-gulls,  which  shun  the  inhabited  isles.  Mrs.  Thaxter,  a  native  of  Appledore,  and  well 
known  as  a  poetess,  thus  charmingly  describes  this  fantastic  and  fascinating  group  of 
ledge  and  trap  dike  :  "  Swept  by  every  wind  that  blows,  and  beaten  by  the  bitter  brine, 
for  unknown  ages,  well  may  the  Isles  of  Shoals  be  barren,  bleak,  and  bare.  At  first 
sight,  nothing  can  be  more  rough  and  inhospitable  than  they  appear.  The  incessant 
influences  of  wind  and  sun,  rain,  snow,  frost,  and  spray,  have  so  bleached  the  tops  of  the 
rocks  that  they  look  hoary  as  if  with  age,  though  in  the  summer-time  a  gracious  green- 
ness of  vegetation  breaks,  here  and  there,  the  stern  outlines,  and  softens  somewhat  their 
rugged  aspect.  Yet,  so  forbidding  are  their  shores,  it  seems  scarcely  worth  while  to  land 
upon  them — mere  heaps  of  tumbling  granite  in  the  wide  and  lonely  sea — when  all  the 
smiling,  '  sapphire -spangled  marriage -ring  of  the  land '  lies  ready  to  woo  the  voyager  back 
again,  and  welcome  his  returning  prow  with  pleasant  sounds,  and  sights,  and  scents,  that 
the  wild  waters  never  know.  But  to  the  human  creature  who  has  eyes  that  will  see,  and 
ears  that  will  hear.  Nature  appeals  with  such  a  novel  charm  that  the  luxurious  beauty 
of  the  land  is  half  forgotten  before  he  is  aware.  The  very  wildness  and  desolation  reveal 
a    strange    beauty  to  him.      In    the    early  morning  the  sea  is  rosy,  and  the  sky;    the  line 


PORTLAND     HARBOR,     AND     ISLANDS. 


412 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


3 
U 


of  land  is  radiant ;  the  scat- 
tered sails  glow  with  the  de- 
licious color  that  touches  so 
tenderly  the  bare,  bleak 
rocks."  The  Isles  of  Shoals 
have  latterly  become  a  place 
of  popular  resort,  and  on 
Appledore  and  Star  Islands 
are  comfortable  hotels  and 
cottages,  which  in  summer 
are  filled  to  overflowing  with 
lovers  of  the  subtile  charms 
of  the  sea. 

Beyond  Portsmouth  the 
coast  runs  tolerably  even  for 
some  distance  northward  ; 
then,  from  Wells  Harbor, 
bends  gradually  to  the  north- 
east, until  the  isle  -  crowded 
entrance  of  Saco  River  is 
reached.  It  is  dotted  all 
along  with  marine  hamlets 
and  fishing-villages,  here  and 
there  a  bit  of  broken  beach, 
and  now  and  then  a  slight 
promontory  overlooking  the 
sea.  York  Beach  is  the 
principal  sand  -  expanse  be- 
tween Portsmouth  and  Port- 
land, and  slopes  gently  to 
the  water  from  the  eminences 
behind.  The  coast  increases 
in  variegated  beauty  north  of 
York,  and  affords  ample  op- 
portunities for  fishermen,  bath- 
ers, and  loungers  by  the  ocean. 

Nothing  could  be  more 
strikingly  picturesque,  how- 
ever, than  the  marine  scenery 


THE    EASTERN   SHORE.  413 

about  Portland,  or  than  that  most  rural  of  New-England  cities  itself,  as  it  perches  on 
its  high  cliffs  above  bay,  valley,  island,  and  sea.  It  was  settled  very  early  in  the  colonial 
history,  but  the  great  fire  of  1866  caused  its  renovation,  and  it  now  bears  a  fresh  and 
modern  as  well  as  otherwise  bright  and  thrifty  aspect.  Well  may  the  citizens  of  Port- 
land be  proud  of  its  superb  site ;  its  exquisite  surroundings ;  its  fine,  deep,  and  well- 
sheltered  harbor ;  its  cheerful,  shaded  streets ;  its  handsome  public  buildings,  and  its  tasteful 
environs.  The  peculiarity  of  the  Portland  landscape  is  that  it  presents  Nature  rather  in 
her  softer  and  more  cheerful  than  in  her  grand  and  rugged  aspects.  The  many  islands 
which  dot  Casco  Bay  are  bright,  in  summer,  with  the  softest  and  richest  verdure  and 
foliage,  and  are  so  numerous  that,  like  Lake  Winnepiseogee,  they  are  said  to  equal  the 
number. of  days  in  the  year.  The  bay  itself  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  on  the  Atlan- 
tic coast,  and  has  been  compared  to  the  bay  of  Naples,  so  broad  and  circular  its  expanse, 
and  so  imposingly  is  it  enframed  in  ranges  of  green  and  undulating  hills.  Cape  Eliza- 
beth, which  forms  the  outermost  southern  point  of  the  bay,  is  the  nearest  approach  in 
this  vicinity  to  the  rude  and  jagged  eminences  already  described  as  lying  farther  to  the 
south.  It  is  a  series  of  lofty,  jutting  cliffs,  rising  abruptly  from  the  ocean,  and  crowned 
with  wood  and  shrubbery,  which  relieve  its  gauntness.  The  Twin-Sisters  Light-houses 
stand  on  the  end  of  the  cape  ;  and  from  these  an  inspiring  view  of  the  bay  and  harbor, 
of  the  distant  city  rising  above  its  ledges,  of  the  many  islands  lying  close  and  irregu- 
larly between  shore  and  shore,  and,  in  the  distance,  of  the  torn  and  stormy  promontories 
which  stretch  out  north  of  Portland,  is  obtained.  Nearer  Portland  is  Peak's  Island,  lux- 
uriant in  foliage,  and  varied  with  natural  bowers  and  lovely  retreats.  Here,  too,  is  a 
favorable  stand-point  whence  to  look  upon  the  genial  and  varied  landscape ;  while  Dia- 
mond Island,  the  pet  spot  for  "down-East"  picnics,  is  famous  the  country  round  for  its 
groves  of  noble  trees,  its  occasionally  rocky  shore  interspersed  with  narrow  bits  of  beach, 
and  its  natural  lawns  of  deep-green  turf 

One  of  the  largest  and  most  attractive  spots  in  Portland  Plarbor  is  Cushing's  Island, 
the  edges  of  which  are  bordered  by  high  bluffs  crowned  with  shrubs  and  turf,  with  here 
and  there  a  low,  rocky  shore  or  a  graceful  inlet.  The  island  is  one  of  the  largest,  com- 
prising two  hundred  and  fifty  acres,  and  is  provided  with  a  single  building,  an  hotel  for 
summer  sojourners.  The  view  from  here  is  perhaps  more  various  and  extensive  than 
from  any  other  point,  for  it  includes  the  harbor,  ship-channel,  and  city,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  towering  ledges  of  Cape  Elizabeth  on  the  other.  Forts  Preble,  Scammel,  Gorges, 
and  Portland  Light,  loom  in  the  near  distance ;  the  busy  wharves  of  Portland  are  seen 
crowded  with  their  craft  of  many  climes ;  the  neighboring  islands  present  each  a  novel 
and  contrasted  aspect  of  shape  and  color;  the  heavy  sea-breakers  may  be  seen  settling 
themselves  into  the  smooth,  blue  ripple  of  the  bay;  and  sometimes  a  glimpse  is  had  of 
the  snowy  summit  of  Mount  Washington,  and  its  sister  eminences,  dimly  outlined  on 
the  far  northwestern  horizon. 


THE     ADIRONDACK     REGION 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    HARRY    FENN. 


Ascent   of  Whiteface. 


T  T  is  a  common  notion  among  Europeans  —  even  those  who  have  travelled  ex- 
^  tensively  in  this  country— that  there  is  very  little  grand  scenery  in  "the  United 
States  east  of  the  Mississippi  River.  The  cause  of  this  delusion  is  obvious  enough.  The 
great  routes  of  travel  run  through  the  fertile  plains,  where  tlie  mass  of  the  population  is 
naturally  found,  and  where  the  great  cities  have  consequently  arisen.  The  grand  and 
picturesque  scenery  of  the   country  lies   far   aloof  from   the    great    lines   of  railroad ;   and 


THE    ADIRONDACK    REGION. 


415 


the  traveller  whirls  on  for  hundreds 
of  miles  through  the  level  region, 
and  decides  that  the  aspect  of 
America  is  very  tame  and  monot- 
onous, and  that  it  has  no  scenery 
to  show  except  the  Highlands  of 
the  Hudson,  Lake  George,  and  the 
Falls  of  Niagara. 

In  the  State  of  New  York 
alone,  however — to  say  nothing  of 
the  mountains  and  the  sea  -  coast 
of  New  England,  or  the  mountains 
of  Pennsylvania,  Virginia,  North 
Carolina,  and  Tennessee — there  are 
vast  regions  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  picturesque  scenery,  to  which 
the  foreign  traveller  seldom  pene- 
trates, and  of  which  scarcely  a 
glimpse  can  be  obtained  from  the 
great  lines  of  railroad,  which  have 
been  established  for  purposes  of 
trade,  and  not  for  sight  -  seeing. 
West  of  the  Hudson  lies  a  moun- 
tainous region,  half  as  large  as 
Wales,  abounding  in  grand  scenery, 
known  only  to  the  wandering  artist 
or  the  adventurous  hunter ;  and  be- 
yond that,  in  the  centre  of  the 
State,  a  lower  and  still  larger  re- 
gion, studded  with  the  loveliest 
lakes  in  the  world,  and  adorned 
with  beautiful  villages,  romantically 
situated  amid  rocky  glens,  like  that 
of  Watkins,  exhibiting  some  of  the 
strangest  freaks  of  Nature  any- 
where to  be  seen,  and  water-falls 
of  prodigious  height  and  of  the 
wildest  beauty. 

But  the  grandeur  of  the   Cats- 


The   Ausable   Chasm. 


4i6 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Birmingham    Falls,    Ausable   Cliasm. 


kills,  and  the  loveliness  of  the  lake-region  of  Central  New  York,  are  both  surpassed  in 
the  great  Wilderness  of  Northern  New  York,  the  Adirondack,  where  the  mountains 
tower  far  above  the  loftiest  of  the  Catskills,  and  where  the  lakes  are  to  be  counted  by 
the  hundreds,  and  are  not  surpassed  in  beauty  even  by  Lakes  George,  Otsego,  or  Seneca. 
This  remarkable  tract,  which  thirty  years  ago  was  known,  even  by  name,  only  to  a  few 
hunters,  trappers,  and  lumbermen,  lies  between  Lakes  George  and  Champlain  on  the 
east,  and  the  St.  Lawrence  on  the  northwest.      It  extends,  on  the  north,  to  Canada,  and, 


THE    ADIRONDACK   REGION. 


417 


on  the  south,  nearly  to  the  Mo- 
hawk. In  area  it  is  considerably 
larger  than  Connecticut,  and,  in 
fact,  nearly  approaches  Wales  in 
size,  and  resembles  that  country 
also  in  its  mountainous  character, 
though  many  of  the  mountains  are 
a  thousand  or  two  thousand  feet 
higher  than  the  highest  of  the 
Welsh. 

Five  ranges  of  mountains,  run- 
ning nearly  parallel,  traverse  the 
Adirondack  from  southwest  to 
northeast,  where  they  terminate  on 
the  shores  of  Lake  Champlain. 
The  fifth  and  most  westerly  range 
begins  at  Little  Falls,  and  termi- 
nates at  Trembleau  Point,  on  Lake 
Champlain.  It  bears  the  name 
Clinton  Range,  though  it  is  also 
sometimes  called  the  Adirondack 
Range.  It  contains  the  highest 
peaks  of  the  whole  region,  the  lof- 
tiest being  Mount  Marcy,  or  Taha- 
wus,  five  thousand  three  hundred 
and  thirty-three  feet  high.  Though 
none  of  these  peaks  attain  to  the 
height  of  the  loftiest  summits  of 
the  White  Mountains  of  New 
Hampshire,  or  the  Black  Moun- 
tains of  North  Carolina,  their  gen- 
eral elevation  surpasses  that  of  any 
range  east  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains. The  entire  number  of  moun- 
tains in  this  region  is  supposed  to 
exceed  five  hundred,  of  which  only 
a  few  have  received  separate  names. 
The  highest  peaks,  besides  Taha- 
wus,     are     Whiteface,     Dix     Peak, 


The    Stairway,    Ausable    Chasm. 


124 


CLEARING     A     JAM,     GREAT     FALLS     OF     THE     AUSABLE. 


THE    ADIRONDACK    REGION. 


41Q 


Seward,  Golden,  Mcln- 
tyre,  Santanoni,  Snowy 
Mountain,  and  Phara- 
oh, all  of  which  are 
not  far  from  five  thousand  feet 
m  height  above  the  sea.  They 
aie  all  wild  and  savage,  and  cov- 
ered with  the  "  forest  primeval," 
except  the  stony  summits  of  the 
highest,  which  rise  above  all  vege- 
tation but  that  of  mosses,  grasses, 
and  dwarf  Alpine  plants.  These  high  summits  are 
thought,  by  geologists,  to  be  the  oldest  land  on  the 
globe,  or  the  first  which  showed  itself  above  the  waters. 
In  the  valleys  between  the  mountains  lie  many 
beautiful  lakes  and  ponds,  to  the  number,  perhaps,  of 
more  than  a  thousand.  The  general  level  of  these  lakes 
is  about  fifteen  hundred  feet  above  the  sea ;  but  Ava- 
lanche Lake,  the  highest  of  them,  is  at  nearly  twice  that 
elevation  above  tide-water.  Some  of  them  are  twenty 
miles  in  length,  while  others  cover  only  a  few  acres. 
The  largest  of  these  lakes  are  Long  Lake,  the  Sara- 
nacs,  Tupper,  the  Fulton  Lakes,  and  Lakes  Golden, 
Henderson,  Sanford,  Eckford,  Racket,  Forked,  New- 
comb,  and  Pleasant.  Steep,  densely-wooded  mountains  rise  from  their  margins ;  beau- 
tiful   bays    indent    their    borders,    and    leafy    points    jut    out;     spring- brooks    tinkle    in; 


/,/ 


ill'/  ff     /     /■  < 


420 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


while  the  shallows  are  fringed  with  water  -  grasses  and  flowering  plants,  and  covered 
sometimes  with  acres  of  white  and  yellow  water-lilies.  The  lakes  are  all  lovely  and 
romantic  in  every  thing  except  their  names,  and  the  scenery  they  offer,  in  combination 
with  the  towering  mountains  and  the  old  and  savage  forest,  is  not  surpassed  on  earth. 
In  natural   features    it    greatly  resembles  Switzerland  and  the  Scottish   Highlands,  as  they 


-'!'%<- 


Whiteface,    from   Lake    Placid. 


must  have  been  before  those  regions  were  setfled  and  cultivated.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Murray 
says  that  an  American  artist,  travelling  in  Switzerland,  wrote  home,  a  year  or  two  ago, 
that,  "  having  travelled  over  all  Switzerland  and  the  Rhine  and  Rhone  regions,  he  had 
not  met  with  scenery  which,  judged  from  a  purely  artistic  point  of  view,  combined  so 
many  beauties  in  connection  with  such  grandeur  as  the  lakes,  mountains,  and  forests  of 
the  Adirondack  region  presented  to  the  gazer's  eye." 


THE    ADIRONDACK    REGION. 


42] 


This  labyrinth  of  lakes  is  in- 
tertwined and  connected  by  a  very 
intricate  system  of  rivers,  brooks, 
and  rills.  The  Saranac,  the  Ausa- 
ble,  the  Boquet,  and  the  Racket, 
rise  in  and  flow  through  this  wil- 
derness ;  and  in  its  loftiest  and 
most  dismal  recesses  are  found  the 
springs  of  the  Hudson  and  its  ear- 
liest branches. 

The  chief  river  of  Adirondack, 
however — its  great  highway  and  ar- 
tery— is  the  Racket,  which  rises  in 
Racket  Lake,  in  the  western  part 
of  Hamilton  County,  and,  after  a 
devious  course  of  about  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  miles,  flows  into 
the  St.  Lawrence.  It  is  the  most 
beautiful  river  of  the  Wilderness. 
Its  shores  are  generally  low,  and 
extend  back  some  distance  in  fer- 
tile meadows,  upon  which  grow  the 
soft  maple,  the  aspen,  alder;  linden, 
and  other  deciduous  trees,  inter- 
spersed with  the  hemlock  and 
pine.  These  fringe  its  borders,  and, 
standing  in  clumps  upon  the  mead- 
ows in  the  midst  of  rank  grass, 
give  them  the  appearance  of  beau- 
tiful deer-parks ;  and  it  is  there,  in- 
deed, that  the  deer  chiefly  pasture. 

Except  these  meadows  of  the 
Racket,  and  the  broad  expanses  of 
lakes  and  ponds,  the  whole  surface 
of  the  Wilderness  is  covered  with 
a  tangled  forest,  through  which 
man  can  scarcely  penetrate.  The 
trees  are  the  pine,  hemlock,  spruce, 
white-cedar,   and    fir,  on    the   lowest 


422 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


grounds  and  higher  slopes  and  summits  of  the  hills  ;  and  the  maple,  beech,  white 
and  black  ash,  birch,  and  elm,  on  the  intermediate  surface.  Everywhere  lie  great 
prone  trunks  mantled  in  moss,  while  overhead,  in  summer,  the  waving  plumes  of  foli- 
age shut  out  the  light,  and  scarcely  admit  the  air.  Under  the  lofty  trees  are  others, 
white-birch  and  aspen,  with  the  saplings  of  the  former  trees,  and  bushes  of  hopple  and 
sumach,  that  scarcely  see  the  light  or  feel  the  wind.  But  occasionally  the  tornado  tears 
through,  and  leaves  tracks  which  time  turns  into  green  alleys  and  dingles,  where  the  bird 
builds  and  the  rabbit  gambols.  Loosened  trees  lean  on  their  fellows,  and  others  grow  on 
rocks,  grasping  them  with  immense  claws  which  plunge  into  the  mould  below.  All  looks 
monotonous,  and   seems    dreary.      "  But  select  a  spot,"  says  Mr.  Street,  the  poet  of  these 


Round    Lake,    from    Bartlett's. 


woods ;  "  let  the  eye  become  a  little  accustomed  to  the  scene,  and  how  the  picturesque 
beauties,  the  delicate,  minute  charms,  the  small,  overlooked  things,  steal  out,  like  lurking 
tints  in  an  old  picture !  See  that  wreath  of  fern,  graceful  as  the  garland  of  a  Greek 
victor  at  the  games ;  how  it  hides  the  dark,  crooked  root  writhing,  snake-like,  from  yon 
beech  !  Look  at  the  beech's  instep  steeped  in  moss,  green  as  emerald,  with  other  moss 
twining  round  the  silver-spotted  trunk  in  garlands,  or  in  broad,  thick,  velvety  spots !  Be- 
hold yonder  stump,  charred  with  the  hunter's  camp-fire,  and  glistening,  black,  and  satin- 
like, in  its  cracked  ebony  !  Mark  yon  mass  of  creeping  pine,  mantling  the  black  mould 
with  furzy  softness !  View  those  polished  cohosh-berries,  white  as  drops  of  pearl  !  See 
the    purple    barberries  and  crimson  clusters  of  the    hopple    contrasting    their    vivid    hues ! 


THE    ADIRONDACK    REGION. 


423 


J*"?** 


/  /■ 


-rt-^^x:^ 


Indian   Carry,    Upper   Saranac. 


and   the    massive  logs,  peeled 

by  decay — what   gray,  downy 

smoothness !    and  the  grasses  in  which    they  are 

weltering  —  how    full    of   beautiful    motions    and 

outlines ! " 

In  these  woods  and  in  these  mountain  soli- 
tudes are  found  the  panther,  the  great  black 
bear,  the  wolf,  the  wild-cat,  the  lynx,  and  the  wolverine.  Even  the  moose  is  some- 
times met  with.  Deer  are  abundant;  and  so,  also,  are  the  fisher,  sable,  otter,  mink,  musk- 
rat,  fox,  badger,  woodchuck,  rabbit,  and  several  varieties  of  the  squirrel.  There  are  scarcely 
any  snakes,  and  none  large  or  venomous. 

Among  the  birds  are  the  grand  black  war-eagle,  several  kinds  of  hawk,  owl,  loon, 
and  duck  ;  the  crane,  heron,  raven,  crow,  stake-driver,  mud-hen,  brown  thrush,  partridge, 
blue-jay,  blackbird,  king-fisher,  and  mountain-finch.  The  salmon-trout  and  the  speckled 
trout  swarm  in  the  lakes,  and  the  latter  also  in  the  brooks  and  rivers.  The  lake-trout 
are  caught  sometimes  of  twenty  pounds  and  more  in  weight ;  the  speckled  trout,  how- 
ever, are  not  large,  except  in  rare  cases,  or  in  seldom-visited  ponds  or  brooks. 

Natural  curiosities  abound  in  Adirondack.  That  others  are  buried  in  the  terrific 
forests   still  darkening  two-thirds  of  the  surface,  cannot  be  doubted. 

Among  the  curiosities  known  are  Lake  Paradox,  whose  outlet  in  high  water  flows 
back  on  the  lake ;  the  pond  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Joseph,  whose  rim  is  close  upon 
the  edge ;  the  mingling  of  the  fountains  of  the  Hudson  and  Ausable,  in  freshets,  in  the 
Indian  Pass ;  the  torrent-dashes  or  lace-work  from  the  greater  or  lesser  rain  down  the 
grooved  side  of  Mount  Golden  toward  Lake  Avalanche  ;  the  three  lakes  on  the  top  of 
Wallface,  sending  streams  into  the  St.  Lawrence  by  Cold  River  and  the  Racket,  into 
Lake  Champlain  by  the  Ausable,  and  the  Atlantic  by  the  Hudson  ;  the  enormous  rocks 
of  the  Indian  Pass  standing  upon  sharp  edges  on  steep  slopes,  and  looking  as  if  the 
deer,  breaking  off  against  them  his  yearly  antlers,  would  topple  them  headlong,  yet  de- 
fying unmoved  the  mighty  agencies  of  frost,  and  plumed  with  towering  trees ;  with  all 
the    cavern    intricacy    between    and   underneath    the    fallen    masses,    where    the    ice   gleams 


424 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


unmelted  throughout  the 
year ;  and  the  same  rock  in- 
tricacy in  the  Panther  Gorge 
of  Mount  Marcy,  or  Taha- 
wus. 

The  Wilmington  Notch 
and  the  Indian  Pass  are 
great  curiosities.  The  former 
is  thus  described  by  Mr. 
Street,  in  his  "Woods  and 
Waters : " 

"At  North  Elba,  we 
crossed  a  bridge  where  the 
Ausable  came  winding  down, 
and  then  followed  its  bank 
toward  the  northeast,  over  a 
good  hard  wheel-track,  gen- 
erally descending,  with  the 
thick  woods  almost  continu- 
ally around  us,  and  the  little 
river  shooting  darts  of  light 
at  us  through  the  leaves. 

"  At  length  a  broad  sum- 
mit, rising  to  a  taller  one, 
broke  above  the  foliage  at 
our  right,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  gigantic  mass  of  rock 
and  forest  saluted  us  upon 
our  left — the  giant  portals  of 
the  notch.  We  entered.  The 
pass  suddenly  shrank,  press- 
ing the  rocky  river  and 
rough  road  close  together.  It 
was  a  chasm  cloven  boldly 
through  the  flank  of  White- 
face.  On  each  side  towered 
the  mountains,  but  at  our 
left  the  range  rose  in  still 
sublimer  altitude,  with  grand 


1 


< 


THE    ADIRONDACK    REGION. 


425 


precipices  like  a  majestic  wall,  or  a  line  of 
palisades  climbing  sheer  from  the  half-way  for- 
ests upward.  The  crowded  row  of  pines  along 
the  broken  and  wavy  crest  was  diminished  to 
a  fringe.  The  whole  prospect,  except  the 
rocks,  was  dark  with  thickest,  wildest  woods. 
As  we  rode  slowly  through  the  still-narrowing 
gorge,  the  mountains  soared  higher  and  higher, 
as  if  to  scale  the  clouds,  presenting  truly  a 
terrific  majesty.  I  shrank  within  myself;  I 
seemed  to  dwindle  beneath  it.  Something 
alike  to  dread  pervaded  the  scene.  The  moun- 
tains appeared  knitting  their  stern  brows  into 
one  threatening  frown  at  our  daring  intrusion 
into  their  stately  solitudes.  Nothing  seemed 
native  to  the  awful  landscape  but  the  plunge 
of  the  torrent  and  the  scream  of  the  eagle. 
Even  the  shy,  wild  deer,  drinking  at  the  stream, 
would  have  been  out  of  keeping.  Below,  at 
our  left,  the  dark  Ausable  dashed  onward 
with  hoarse,  foreboding  murmurs,  in  harmony 
with  the  loneliness  and  wildness  of  the  spot. 

"  We  passed  two  miles  through  this  sub- 
lime avenue,  which  at  mid-day  was  only  par- 
tially lighted  from  the  narrow  roof  of  sky. 

"  At  length  the  peak  of  Whiteface  itself 
appeared  above  the  acclivity  at  our  left,  and, 
once  emerging,  kept  in  view  in  misty  azure. 
There  it  stood,  its  crest — whence  I  had  gazed 
a  few  days  before — rising  like  some  pedestal 
built  up  by  Jove  or  Pan  to  overlook  his 
realm.  The  pinnacles  piled  about  it  seemed 
but  vast  steps  reared  for  its  ascent.  One 
dark,  wooded  summit,  a  mere  bulwark  of  the 
mighty  mass  above,  showed  athwart  its  heart 
a  broad,  pale  streak,  either  the  channel  of  a 
vanished  torrent,  or  another  but  far  less  for- 
midable slide.  The  notch  now  broadened,  and, 
in    a    rapid    descent    of   the    road,  the    Ausable 

125 


426 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


came  again  in  view,  plunging  and  twisting  down  a  gorge  of  rocks,  with  the  foam  flung 
at  intervals  through  the  skirting  trees.  At  last  the  pass  opened  into  cultivated  fields  ; 
the  acclivities  at  our  right  wheeled  away  sharply  east,  but  Whiteface  yet  waved  along 
the  western  horizon." 

.  Tahawus   has   often    been    ascended,  though    the  task    is   by   no    means   an    easy  one. 


On   Tupper    Lake. 

Its  summit  commands  a  magnificent  prospect,  which    is    thus  described  by  Mr.  Street   in 
his  "  Indian   Pass  :  " 

"  What  a  multitude  of  peaks  !  The  whole  horizon  is  full  to  repletion.  As  a  guide 
said,  '  Where  there  wasn't  a  big  peak,  a  little  one  was  stuck  up.'  Really  true,  and  how 
savage  !  how  wild  !  Close  on  my  right  rises  Haystack,  a  truncated  cone,  the  top  shaved 
apparently  to  a  smooth  level.  To  the  west  soars  the  sublime  slope  of  Mount  Golden, 
with  Mclntyre  looking  over  its  shoulder;  a  little  above,  point  the  purple  peaks  of 
Mount  Seward — a  grand  mountain-cathedral — with  the  tops  of  Mount  Henderson  and 
Santanoni    in    misty    sapphire.      At    the    southwest    shimmers    a    dreamy    summit  —  Blue 


Bog-River    Falls,  Tupper    Lake. 


Mountain  ;  while  to  the  south  stands  the  near  and  lesser  top  of  Skylight.  Beyond,  at 
the  southeast,  wave  the  stern  crests  of  the  Boreas  Mountain.  Thence  ascends  the  Dial, 
with  its  leaning  cone,  like  the  Tower  of  Pisa  ;  and  close  to  it  swells  the  majesty  of 
Dix's  Peak,  shaped  like  a  slumbering  lion.  Thence  stagger  the  wild,  savage,  splintered 
tops    of  the  Gothic    Mountains    at    the    Lower  Ausable   Pond — a  ragged  thunder-cloud — 


THE    ADIRONDACK    REGION. 


427 


linking  themselves,  on  the  east,  with  the 
Noon-Mark  and  Rogers's  Mountain,  that 
watch  over  the  valley  of  Keene.  To  the 
northeast,  rise  the  Edmunds's  Pond  sum- 
mits— the  mountain-picture  closed  by  the 
sharp  crest  of  old  Whiteface  on  the 
north  —  stately  outpost  of  the  Adiron- 
dacks.  Scattered  through  this  picture  are 
manifold  expanses  of  water — those  almost 
indispensable  eyes  of  a  landscape.  That 
glitter  at  the  north  by  old  Whiteface  is 
Lake  Placid  ;  and  the  spangle,  Bennett's 
Pond.  Yon  streak  running  south  from 
Mount  Seward,  as  if  a  silver  vein  had 
been  opened  in  the  stern  mountain,  is 
Long  Lake  ;  and,  between  it  and  our 
vision,  shine  Lakes  Henderson  and  San- 
ford,  with  the  sparkles  of  Lake  Hark- 
ness,  and  the  twin-lakes  Jamie  and  Sal- 
lie.  At  the  southwest,  glances  beautiful 
Blue- Mountain  Lake  —  name  most  sug- 
gestive and  poetic.  South,  lies  Boreas 
Pond,  with  its  green  beaver-meadow  and 
a  mass  of  rock  at  the  edge.  To  the 
southeast,  glisten  the  Upper  and  Lower 
Ausable  Ponds ;  and,  farther  off,  in  the 
same  direction.  Mud  and  Clear  Ponds, 
by  the  Dial  and  Dix's  Peak.  But  what 
is  that  long,  long  gleam  at  the  east  ? 
Lake  Champlain  !  And  that  glittering 
Ime  north }  The  St.  Lawrence,  above 
the  dark  sea  of  the  Canadian  woods ! " 

The  Indian  Pass  is  a  stupendous 
gorge  in  the  wildest  part  of  the  Adiron- 
dack Mountains,  in  that  lonely  and  sav- 
age region  which  the  aborigines  rightly 
named  Conyacraga,  or  the  Dismal  Wil- 
derness, the  larger  portion  of  which  has 
never    yet    been    visited    by    white    men. 


428 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


and  which  still  remains 
the  secure  haunt  of  the 
wolf,  the  panther,  the 
great  black  bear,  and  the 
rarer  lynx,  wolverine, 
and  moose.  The  springs 
which  form  the  source 
are  found  at  an  elevation  of  more 
than  four  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea,  in  rocky  recesses,  in  whose 
cold  depths  the  ice  of  winter 
never  melts  entirely  away,  but  re- 
mains in  some  measure  even  in 
the  hottest  months  of  the  year. 
Here,  in  the  centre  of  the  pass, 
rise  also  the  springs  of  the  Ausa- 
ble,  which  flows  into  Lake  Cham- 
plain,  and  whose  waters  reach  the  Atlantic  through  the  mouth  of  the  St.  Lawrence  several 
hundred  miles  from  the  mouth  of  the  Hudson  ;  and  yet,  so  close  are  the  springs  of  the 
two  rivers,  that  the  wild-cat,  lapping  the  water  of  the  one,  may  bathe  his  hind-feet  in  the 
other,  and  a  rock  rolling  from  the  precipices  above  could  scatter  spray  from  both  in  the 
same  concussion.  In  freshets,  the  waters  of  the  two  streams  actually  mingle.  The  main 
stream  of  the  Ausable,  however,  Hows  from  the  portheast  portal  of  the  pass ;  and  the  main 
stream  of  the  Hudson   from  the  southwest.     It  is  locally  known  as  the  Adirondack  River, 


A  Carry  near  Little  Tupper  Lake. 


THE    ADIRONDACK    REGION. 


429 


and,  after  leaving  the  pass,  flows  into  Lakes  Henderson  and  Sanford.  On  issuing  from 
them  it  receives  the  name  of  Hudson,  and  passes  into  Warren  County,  receiving  the 
Boreas  and  the  Schroon,  which,  with  their  branches,  bring  to  it  the  waters  of  a  score  or 
more  of  mountain  lakes  and  of  tarns  innumerable. 

Thirty  years  ago,  Adirondack  was  almost  as  unknown  as  the  interior  of  Africa. 
There  were  few  huts  or  houses  there,  and  very  few  visitors.  But  of  late  the  number  of 
sportsmen  and  tourists  has  greatly  increased,  and  taverns  have  been  established  in  some 
of  the  wildest  spots.  In  summer,  the  lakes  swarm  with  the  boats  of  travellers  in  search 
of  game,  or  health,  or  mere  contemplation  of  beautiful  scenery,  and  the  strange  sights 
and  sounds  of  primitive  Nature.  All  travelling  there  is  done  by  means  of  boats  of 
small  size  and  slight  build,  rowed  by  a  single  guide,  and  made  so  light  that  the  craft 
can  be  lifted    from    the    water,  and   carried    on    the   guide's  shoulders  from  pond  to  pond, 


Long    Lake,    from    the    Lower    Island. 


or  from  stream  to  stream.  Competent  guides,  steady,  intelligent,  and  experienced  men, 
can  be  hired  at  all  the  taverns  for  two  or  three  dollars  a  day,  who  will  provide  boats, 
tents,  and  every  thing  requisite  for  a  trip.  Each  traveller  should  have  a  guide  and  a 
boat  to  himself,  and  the  cost  of  their  maintenance  in  the  woods  is  not  more  than  a 
dollar  a  week  for  each  man  of  the  party.  The  fare  is  chiefly  trout  and  venison,  of 
which  there  is  generally  an  abundance  to  be  procured  by  gun  and  rod.  A  good-sized 
valise  or  carpet-bag  will  hold  all  the  clothes  that  one  person  needs  for  a  two  months'  trip 
in  the  woods,  besides  those  he  wears  in.     Nothing  is  wanted  but  woollen  and  flannel. 

The  following  list  comprises  the  essentials  of  an  outfit :  a  complete  undersuit  of  wool- 
len or  flannel,  with  a  "  change  ;  "  stout  pantaloons,  vest,  and  coat  ;  a  felt  hat  ;  two  pairs 
of  stockings ;  a  pair  of  common  winter-boots  and  camp-shoes ;  a  rubber  blanket  or  coat  ; 
a  hunting-knife,  belt,  and  pint  tin  cup  ;    a  pair  of  warm  blankets,  towel,  soap,  etc. 


430 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


There  are  several  routes  by  which  Adirondack  can  be  reached  ;  but  the  best  and 
easiest  from  New  York  is  that  by  Lake  Champlain.  The  steamer  from  Whitehall  will 
land  the  traveller  at  Port  Kent,  on  the  west  side  of  the  lake,  nearly  opposite  Burlington, 
Vermont,  where  coaches  are  always  waiting  to  take  passengers,  six  miles,  to  Keeseville. 
Here  conveyances  for  the  Wilderness  can  always  be  had,  which  will  carry  the  travel- 
ler to  Martin's  Tavern,  on  the  Lower  Saranac,  a  distance  of  about  fifty  miles,  which  is  a 
long    day's    drive,  but    a    very  pleasant    and    interesting    one.      From  Martin's,  the    tourist 


Mount    Seward,    from    Long    Lake. 

moves  about  altogether  in  boats,  and  can,  as  he  pleases,  camp  out  in  his  tent,  or  so  time 
his  day's  voyage  as  to  pass  each  night  in  some  one  of  the  rude  but  comfortable  taverns, 
which  are  now  to  be  found  in  almost  all  of  the  easily-accessible  parts  of  the  Wilderness. 
It  was  from  this  quarter  that  our  artist  entered  Adirondack.  At  Keeseville  he 
paused  for  a  day  or  two  to  sketch  the  falls  and  walled  rocks  of  the  Ausable  chasm, 
which  afford  some  of  the  wildest  and  most  impressive  scenes  to  be  found  on  this  side 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains.     At  the  distance  of   a   mile    or  so  from  Keeseville  is  Birming- 


Round   Island,    Long   Lake. 


ham  Falls,  where  the  Ausable  descends  about  thirty  feet  into  a  semicircular  basin  of 
great  beauty  ;  a  mile  farther  down  are  the  Great  Falls,  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high, 
surrounded  by  the  wildest  scenery.  Below  this  the  stream  grows  narrower  and  deeper, 
and  rushes  rapidly  through  the  chasm,  where,  at  the  narrowest  point,  a  wedged  bowlder 
cramps  the  channel  to  the  width  of  five  or  six  feet.  From  the  main  stream  branches 
run  at  right  angles  through  fissures,  down  one  of  which,  between  almost  perpendicular 
rocks  a  hundred  feet  high,  hangs  an  equally  steep  stairway  of  over  two  hundred  steps,  at 


THE    ADIRONDACK    REGION. 


431 


Watching    for    Deer,    on    Long   Lake 


the  bottom  of  which  is  a  narrow  platform    of   rock    forming 
the  floor  of  the  fissure. 

From    Keeseville  the  traveller  rides  westward  on  a  road 
leading    to    Martin's,  on   the    Lower    Saranac.      He  will  pass 
for  a  great  part  of  the  way  in  sight  of  Whiteface  Mountain, 
the    great    outpost    of  the    Adirondacks.      At    the  village   of 
Ausable    Forks,  about  twelve    miles    from    Keeseville,  he  can 
turn  off  into  a  road  which  leads  through  the  famous  White- 
face  or  Wilmington   Notch,  and    can    regain    the    main    road' 
about  a  dozen  miles  before    it    reaches    Saranac    Lake.      The 
distance  by  this  route  is  not  much  longer  than  by  the   main 
road,  and    the    scenery    is    incomparably   finer.      The  view  of 
Whiteface    from    Wilmington   was   pronounced    by    Professor 
Agassiz  to  be  one  of  the   finest  mountain-views  he  had  ever 
seen,  and    {q.\n    men    wxre    better   acquainted  with    mountain- 
scenery  than  Agassiz.      Through  the    notch    flows   the  Ausa- 
ble River,  with    a    succession    of  rapids    and    cataracts,  down 
which   is   floated   much  of  the  timber  cut  in  the  Adirondack 
forests    by  the   hardy  and    adventurous    lumberers,  some    idea 
of    whose    toils    and    dangers    may    be    formed 
from    the    sketch    of    "  Clearing    a    Jam,"    the 
scene  of    which    is    at   the  head  of  one    of  the 
falls  of  the  Ausable,  in  the  Wilmington   Notch. 
From    the    village    of    Wilmington    our    artist 
ascended    Whiteface,    which    is 
second  only  to  Tahawus  among 
the  mountains,  its  height  being 
nearly  five    thousand   feet.      At 
its  foot,  on  the  southwest  side, 
lies    Lake    Placid,    one    of   the 
loveliest    lakes    of   the    Wilder- 
ness.    From  this  lake,  which  is 
a    favorite    summer    resort,   one 
of  the  best  views  of  Whiteface 
can  be  obtained. 

From  Lake  Placid  to  Mar- 
tin's is  a  few  hours'  drive  over 
a  rough  but  picturesque  road. 
Martin's    is    a    large    and    com- 


432 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


The    Indian    Pass 


fortable  hotel  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  Lower  Saranac,  a  beau- 
tiful lake,  six  or  seven  miles 
long  and  two  miles  wide,  stud- 
ded with  romantic  islands,  fifty- 
two  in  number.  The  Saranac 
River  connects  it  with  Round 
Lake,  three  miles  to  the  west- 
ward. Round  Lake  is  about 
two  miles  in  diameter,  and  is 
famous  for  its  storms.  It  is  in 
its  turn  connected  with  the 
Upper  Saranac  Lake  by  an- 
other stretch  of  the  Saranac 
River,  on  which  stands  Bart- 
lett's  Hotel,  one  of  the  best 
and  most  frequented  of  the 
Adirondack  taverns.  From  a 
point  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  house,  a  fine  view  can  be 
obtained  of  Round  Lake  and 
the  surrounding  mountains.  A 
short  "  carry,"  of  a  mile  or  so 
in  length,  conducts  from  Bart- 
lett's  to  the  Upper  Saranac, 
whence  it  is  easy  to  pass  in 
boats  to  St.  Regis  Lake,  our 
view  of  which  gives  a  singu- 
larly good  and  accurate  idea 
of  the  general  characteristics 
of  Adirondack  scenery.  A 
short  voyage  in  the  opposite 
direction  across  the  Upper  Sar- 
anac will  take  the  traveller's 
boat  to  the  Indian  carry,  or 
Carey's  carry,  as  it  is  some- 
times called,  to  distinguish  it 
from  another  carry.  Sweeny's, 
established     a     few    years    ago. 


THE    ADIRONDACK   REGION. 


433 


Both  lead  to  the  Racket  River, 
the  great  artery  of  the  Wilder- 
ness. 

A    few    hours'    row    down 
the    Racket    brings   you    to    the 
outlet     of     Lake      Tupper,     so 
named,  not  from   the  author  of 
"  Proverbial      Philosophy,"     but 
from   the    hunter   or  guide  who 
discovered  it.     It  is  several  miles  in 
length,    and     contains     many    pictu- 
resque,   rocky    islands,    covered    with 
evergreens.      At    its    head    the    wild 
and   little-explored  Bog  River  flows 
into   the  lake    over   a    romantic  cas- 
cade, which    forms    one  of  the  great 
attractions   of    the    Adirondacks,   be- 
ing  a    famous    place    for    trout,    and 
having    near    by    one    of    the    most 
popular    taverns    of   the    Wilderness, 

established  a  few  years  ago,  and  kept  by  Mr.  Graves,  who,  in  1872,  while  hunting,  was 
accidentally  killed  by  his  son,  being  shot  by  him  while  aiming  at  a  deer,  with  which  his 
father  was  struggling  in  the  water. 

From  Tupper  Lake  the  route  of  the  traveller  is  up  Bog  River,  through  a  series  of 
ponds  and  an  occasional  "carry" — where  the  guides  take  the  boats  on  their  backs, 
as  represented  in  our  engraving  —  to  Little  Tupper  Lake.  Thence  a  series  of  ponds 
and  carries  leads  to  Long  Lake,  which,  for  more  than  twenty  miles,  resembles  a  great 
river.  It  is  the  longest  of  the  Adirondack  lakes,  though  there  are  many  broader  ones. 
From  this  lake  a  fine  view  can  be  had  of  Mount  Seward,  four  thousand  three  hundred 
and  forty-eight  feet  high.  We  give  also  an  illustration  of  the  way  in  which  the  guides 
of  this  region  station  themselves  in  trees  to  watch  for  deer.  The  deer  are  hunted  by 
powerful    hounds,    which    are   put  on   their  trail    in    the   woods,    and    pursue    them    with 

126 


Source   of  the    Hudson. 


434 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Opalescent   Falls. 


such  tenacity  that  the  frightened 
animal  at  last  takes  to  the  water. 
The  hunters,  with  their  boats  sta- 
tioned at  intervals  along  the  shore, 
watch  patiently  till  the  deer  breaks 
from  the  woods  and  plunges  into 
the  water.  The  nearest  hunter 
immediately  enters  his  boat,  gives 
chase,  and  generally  succeeds  in 
overtaking  and  killing  the  game. 

From  Long  Lake  to  the  In- 
dian Pass  is  a  very  rough  journey 
through  the  wildest  part  of  the 
Wilderness.  We  give  an  illustra- 
tion which  conveys  some  idea  of 
the  kind  of  road  the  explorer  who 
ventures  thither  may  expect  to 
encounter.  He  will  find  in  it  the 
source  of  the  Hudson  at  an  eleva- 
tion of  four  thousand  three  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  sea.  From 
this  lofty  pool  the  water  flows 
through  Feldspar  Brook  into  the 
Opalescent  River,  on  which  there 
is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  cas- 
cades of  the  Adirondacks. 

Of  the  scenery  of  the  source 
of  the  Hudson,  Mr.  Lossing,  in  his 
"  The  Hudson  from  the  Wilderness 
to  the  Sea,"  writes  as  follows:  "We 
entered  the  rocky  gorge  between 
the  steep  slopes  of  Mount  Mcln- 
tyre  and  the  cliffs  of  Wallface 
Mountain.  There  we  encountered 
enormous  masses  of  rocks,  some 
worn  by  the  abrasion  of  the  ele- 
ments, some  angular,  some  bare, 
and  some  covered  with  moss,  and 
many    of  them    bearing  large  trees. 


THE    ADIRONDACK    REGION. 


435 


\i  '' 


The    Hudson,    Twenty    Miles   from   its   Source. 


whose  roots,  clasping  them  on 
all  sides,  strike  into  the  earth 
for  sustenance.  One  of  the 
masses  presented  a  singular  appearance ;  it  is  of  cubic 
form,  its  summit  full  thirty  feet  from  its  base,  and  upon 
it  was  quite  a  grove  of  hemlock  and  cedar  trees.  Around  and  partly  under  this  and 
others  lying  loosely,  apparently  kept  from  rolling  by  roots  and  vines,  we  were  compelled 
to  clamber  a  long  distance,  when  we  reached  a  point  more  than  one  hundred  feet  above 
the  bottom  of  the  gorge,  where  we  could  see  the  famous  Indian  Pass  in  all  its  wild 
grandeur.  Before  us  arose  a  perpendicular  cliff,  nearly  twelve  hundred  feet  from  base  to 
summit,  as  raw  in  appearance  as  if  cleft  only  yesterday.  Above  us  sloped  Mclntyre,  still 
more  lofty  than  the  cliff  of  Wallface,  and  in  the  gorge  lay  huge  piles  of  rock,  chaotic  in 
position,  grand  in  dimensions,  and  awful  in  general  aspect.  They  appear  to  have  been 
cast  in  there  by  some  terrible  convulsion  not  very  remote.  Through  these  the  waters 
of  this  branch  of  the  Hudson,  bubbling  from  a  spring  not  far  distant  (close  by  a  foun- 
tain of  the  Ausable),  find  their  way.  Here  the  head-waters  of  these  rivers  commingle 
in  the  spring  season,  and,  when  they  separate,  they  find  their  way  to  the  Atlantic  Ocean 
at  points  a  thousand  miles  apart." 


THE  CONNECTICUT  SHORE  OF  THE  SOUND. 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    WILLIAM    H.    GIBSON. 

''  I  ^HE  vagueness  which  in  many  minds  attaches  itself  to  the  region  known  as  "  Yan- 
-^  kee-land " — which  abroad  expands  itself  into  a  generic  term  for  the  whole  territory 
of  the  United  States — has,  nevertheless,  its  sharp  lines  of  definition ;  and  the  phrase 
"from  the  Hudson  to  the  Penobscot"  is  hardly  a  successful  rival,  in  this  respect,  to  the 
more  common  expression,  "  from  Ouoddy  Head  to  Byram  River."  The  former  of  these 
distinctive  localities  lies  on  the  remote  margin  of  Maine  ;  and  the  latter  is  the  dividing 
line  of  Connecticut  and  New  York,  on  the  border  of  Long-Island  Sound.  It  is  at 
Byram  River  that  this  sketch  of  the  Connecticut  shore  of  that  extensive  and  beautiful 
water  begins.  Its  scope  is  the  stretch  of  that  varied  shore  along  the  Sound,  for  a  cen- 
tury of  miles,  with  a  final  slight  digression  to  Norwich,  at  the  head  of  one  of  its  tribu- 
tary rivers. 

The  traveller  by  the  Shore-Line  route,  from  New  York  to  Boston,  follows  the 
entire  line  of  the  Connecticut  shore  ;  but,  in  the  swift  rush  and  whirl  of  his  fiery  jour- 
ney, he  can  get  only  the  briefest  and  most  unsatisfactory  suggestions  of  the  beauty  which 
lies  all  about,  if  not  exactly  along,  his  way.  Its  most  attractive  and  fascinating  aspects 
are  not,  indeed,  in  most  cases,  to  be  seen  without  digression  and  search,  involving  delay, 
and,  here  and  there,  delightful  excursions.  The  temptations  to  this  delay  are  everywhere 
enhanced  by  the  general  comfort  of  the  hotels  at  and  near  the  important  railway- 
stations. 

About  twenty  miles  from  our  great  commercial  metropolis  lies  the  first  station  on 
the  Connecticut  shore,  that  of  Greenwich,  a  very  attractive  village,  occupying  finely- 
wooded  slopes  just  north  of  the  station.  Its  antiquity  is  unquestionable  ;  for,  two 
centuries  and  a  quarter  ago,  it  was  designated  by  the  Dutch-English  Commission,  in 
convention  at  Hartford,  as  the  western  limit  of  the  province  of  Connecticut.  The  princi- 
pal lion  of  the  region  is  the  famous  declivity  down  which  the  gallant  Putnam,  of  Revolu- 
tionary fame,  rode  on  horseback  to  avoid  the  close  fire  of  a  pursuing  troop  of  British 
dragoons,  who,  not  daring  to  follow  him  in  his  "  break-neck  flight,"  were  fain  to  content 
themselves  with  sending  volleys  of  bullets  after  him.  This  spot,  now  called  Old  Put's 
Hill,  is  a  long  flight  of  rude  cuttings,  or  steps,  made  in  a  steep  hill-side  for  the  con- 
venience of  the  people  in  reaching  a  place  of  worship  on  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

The  village  and  vicinity  of  Stamford  will  well  repay  the  tourist  of  ample  leisure  for 
delay  there.  Stamford,  like  the  vignette  village  of  this  portfolio  of  sketches,  claims  a 
notable  antiquity  of  origin  ;  but,  for  a  little  less  than  two  centuries,  it  had  scarcely  more 
to  be  proud  of  than  a  name.     Within  the  last  forty  years  alone,  it  has  exhibited  vitality. 


GLIMPSES    OF    GREENWICH,     STAMFORD,     AND     NORWALK. 


438  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

and,  from  being  a  simple  and  unattractive  hamlet,  it  has  grown  into  beauty  and  impor- 
tance ;  its  hundreds  of  1834  almost  augmented  to  thousands  in  1874.  It  is  a  favorite 
resort  of  New -York  merchants,  many  of  whom  have  embellished  its  heights  and  knolls 
with  elegant  mansions  and  villas.  Much  taste,  as  well  as  wealth,  is  displayed  in  its  archi- 
tecture, making  its  streets  and  avenues  attractive.  Shippen  Point,  on  the  Sound,  less  than 
a  mile  from  the  station,  is  a  place  of  summer  resort  to  many  hundreds,  who  crowd  the 
spacious  Ocean  House  and  numerous  smaller  places  of  entertainment. 

Close  by  is  one  of  many  ledges  of  rock  which  diversify  the  level  aspect  and  tame- 
ness  of  the  Long-Island  shore.  Pound  Rock  stretches  its  dark  ramparts  into  the  water, 
and  commands  a  very  fine  view  of  the  Sound  and  its  scenery.  There  are  beautiful  drives 
in  the  adjacent  country,  with,  here  and  there,  pretty  glimpses  on  Mill  River,  "  the  ancient 
Rippowam." 

Epicures  who  are  particular  in  regard  to  the  quality  of  their  oysters  will  have  special 
associations  with  the  name  of  the  next  important  place  in  our  eastward  progress  along 
the  Connecticut  shore  of  the  Sound.  It  is  Norwalk,  whose  fine,  picturesque  bay  affords 
the  bivalves  in  great  abundance,  and  of  proverbial  excellence.  The  oyster-trade  is  one  of 
the  most  flourishing  of  the  industries  of  the  now  populous  and  rapidly-growing  town — city, 
perhaps,  we  should  say — of  South  Norwalk ;  and  the  white  sails  of  the  numerous  oyster- 
smacks  lend  one  of  their  chief  charms  to  the  prominent  points  of  the  harbor  in  its 
vicinity.  Of  these,  Roton  Point,  so  happily  pictured  by  our  artist,  is  the  resort,  by  emi- 
nence, of  the  festive  parties  from  the  town.  It  is  admirably  adapted  for  picnics,  uniting 
extensive  areas  with  fine  groups  of  noble  pines,  and  these  flanked  by  a  broad  and 
beautiful  beach. 

The  scarcely  less  attractive  picture  of  Wilson's  Point  is  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
harbor,  and  a  little  farther  up  the  Sound.  It  includes  a  glimpse  of  the  Norwalk  Islands. 
The  "  Ancient  Landmark,"  with  which  the  artist  has  flanked,  on  the  right,  the  pretty, 
nameless  bit  of  moonlight,  is  not  far  from  Wilson's  Point,  and  stands,  indeed,  upon  the 
grounds  of  the  proprietor  of  that  beautiful  spot.  It  is  believed  to  be  the  chimney 
of  an  old  Revolutionary  building  of  historic  interest,  and  the  subject  of  many  legendary 
anecdotes.  It  presents  some  internal  evidence  of  having  been  used  as  a  place  of  conceal- 
ment, perhaps  by  Tories  hiding  from  pursuing  colonists.  Its  preservation  for  so  long  a 
time  in  its  ruined  condition  is  said  to  be  the  result  of  government  care,  utilizing  it  as  a 
literal  landmark  to  guide  vessels  over  the  harbor-shoals. 

Norwalk — without  prefix — is  a  twin-town,  on  the  north  side  of  the  railway.  The 
hundredth  anniversary  of  the  burning  of  this  place  by  the  Hessians  will  occur  in  1879, 
and  afford  the  enterprising  citizens  a  fine  occasion  for  distinguishing  themselves  in  the 
popular  centennial  line  ! 

A  few  miles  east  of  Norwalk,  and  in  the  broad  fields  of  Southport,  there  was,  a 
hundred    years    ago    and    more,  an    extensive    marsh,  known  as  the  Sasco    Swamp,  which 


GLIMPSKS    OF    SOUTH     NOR^ArALK    AND    SOUTHPORT. 


440  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

possesses  historic  interest  as  the  scene  of  the  subdual  of  the  Pequot  Indians  by  English 
troops  from  Massachusetts,  There  are,  indeed,  few  points  along  the  shore  of  Connecticut 
about  which  some  antiquarian  interest  does  not  centre  in  memorials  or  legends  of  abori- 
ginal adventures,  battles,  and  defeats. 

Southport  bears  to-day  no  trace  of  the  fiery  ravage  to  which  the  Hessian  troops, 
under  the  notorious  Tryon,  subjected  it  in  1779,  when  it  shared  the  fate  of  Norwalk,  but 
was  more  fortunate  in  having  poetic  commemoration  of  its 

"...  smoking  ruins,  marks  of  hostile  ire, 
And  ashes  warm,  which  drink  the  tears  that  flow." 

Black  Rock  is  a  noticeable  village  of  the  township  of  Fairfield,  and  quite  famous, 
both  for  its  very  excellent  harbor  and  for  many  beautiful  prospects  which  characterize  its 
vicinity. 

Bridgeport,  which  is  reached  on  the  railway,  fifty-nine  miles  from  New  York,  de- 
serves more  extended  mention  than  the  limits  assigned  to  this  paper  will  allow.  It  is 
finely  situated  on  an  arm  of  the  Sound,  where  the  Pequannock  River  empties  itself  into 
it.  The  ground  it  covers  was  once  owned  by  the  Paugusset  Indians,  whose  name  is, 
somewhat  apocryphally,  and  very  remotely,  connected  with  the  noble  stream  bearing  the 
musical  name  of  the  Housatonic.  In  the  discomfiture  and  flight  of  the  guilty  Pequots 
before  Mason,  the  harmless  Paugussets  were  involved  in  misfortunes  from  which  they 
never  recovered. 

Bridgeport  has  been  a  city  about  forty  years,  and  has  a  present  estimated  population 
of  more  than  twenty  thousand  souls.  It  is  a  place  of  great  enterprise  and  thrift  in 
manufactures,  foremost  of  which  are  the  extensive  Sewing-Machine  Works ;  manufactories 
of  arms,  cartridges,  brass  and  steel  wares,  carriages,  and  water-proof  fabrics,  giving  profit- 
able employment  to  thousands,  and  adding  rapidly  to  the  wealth  of  the  place. 

Seaside  Park  is  justly  one  of  Bridgeport's  lions.  It  is  finely  situated,  looking  over 
the  harbor  and  the  expansive  Sound  beyond.  A  broad  esplanade  affords  attractive  walks 
and  drives  on  the  beach. 

Few,  if  any,  New-England  cities  have  a  more  beautiful  street  than  Bridgeport  can 
show  in  its  Golden  Hill,  a  long  line  of  elegance,  taste,  and  wealth  in  private  dwellings. 

Three  miles  eastward  of  the  city  lies  old  and  picturesque  Stratford,  where  the  new 
has  not  yet  displaced  the  old,  where  the  racket  of  mills  and  machinery  does  not  vex 
the  quiet-loving  ear,  or  harrow  the  nerves  of  the  sensitive ;  and  where  one  may  dream 
away  a  sweet  summer  twilight  in  the  shadows  of  grand  old  trees,  more  ancient  even 
than  the  quaint  but  stately  houses  of  the  village.  These  fine,  ancient  elms  make  up, 
together  with  broad  reaches  of  the  stately  Housatonic  River,  the  noblest  aspects  of  Strat- 
ford. Its  light-house  is  of  a  quaint  style  of  architecture,  matching  well  the  primitiveness 
of  the  place,  which,  however,  is  not  utterly  antiquated.     The  old  church,  of  which  Adam 


CONNECTICUT    SHORE     SCENES. 


127 


442  PICTURESQUE     AMERICA. 

Blackman  was  pastor  in  the  dim  colonial  days,  has  now  a  handsome  though  rural  Gothic 
house  of  worship,  in  striking  contrast  to  the  old,  quaint  sanctuary  of  its  early  devotions. 

Five  miles  from  Stratford,  eastward,  on  the  railway,  and  across  the  broad  bosom  of 
the  Housatonic,  we  come  to  Milford,  picturesque  with  stately,  shadowing  elms,  and  a 
most  seductive  length  of  green  neatly  inclosed.  Here  flows  the  silvery  Wap-o-waug, 
giving  the  railway-passenger  free  transit  over  its  clear  waters  by  a  pretty  bridge  and 
bosky  banks.  Here,  too,  is  a  tall  monument,  built  over  the  remains  of  many  soldiers, 
cast  ashore  here  from   British  cartel-ships,  in   1777. 

A  railway  stretch  of  seven  miles  brings  the  tourist  to  West  Haven,  where  he  may 
well  miss  a  train,  if  only  to  indulge  himself  in  a  pleasant  stroll  to  Savin  Rock.  It  is  a 
walk  of  twenty  minutes,  and  rewarded,  at  its  close,  with  beautiful  prospects  over  the 
Sound  and  shore  alike. 

The  City  of  Elms  is  now  close  at  hand,  and  there  is  much  in  New  Haven  to 
interest  the  intelligent  visitor — very  much,  indeed,  of  which  this  sketch  can  take  no  cog- 
nizance. Its  grand  avenues  of  elm-trees  are  certainly  unsurpassed  in  New  England ;  and 
the  one,  especially,  which  separates  the  beautiful  and  attractive  Green  from  the  grounds 
of  Yale  College,  is  a  great  Gothic  aisle  of  such  interlacing  boughs,  and  such  interwoven 
masses  of  rich,  green,  and  sun-gilded  foliage,  as  would  surely  have  either  inspired  or 
paralyzed  the  facile  pencil  of  Birket  Foster. 

New  Haven  has  a  population  of  over  fifty  thousand,  and  the  city  is  not  more  attractive 
for  its  picturesqueness  than  it  is  for  its  intellectual  culture  and  social  refinement.  These 
characteristics  are  doubtless  due,  in  great  part,  to  the  influence  of  Yale  College,  which, 
in  its  real  comprehensiveness  of  scope,  in  the  number  of  its  departments,  and  in  the 
richness  of  its  educational  accessories,  more  nearly  approaches  the  order  of  a  true  uni- 
versity than  any  other  institution  in  the  United  States,  that  at  Cambridge  alone  excepted. 
It  was  founded  in  1700,  and,  for  now  almost  two  eventful  centuries,  has  exerted  a 
widely-diffused  and  beneficent  influence  upon  American  character  and  development. 

Only  two  years  ago.  New  Haven  divided  with  Hartford  the  legislative  "honors"  of 
Connecticut,  but  now  her  chief  and  sufficient  distinction  is  her  noble  and  expansive 
college. 

Numerous  converging  and  intersecting  railways,  extensive  manufactures,  and  a  con- 
siderable West-India  commerce,  contribute  to  the  life  and  wealth  of  this  beautiful  city. 
Its  suburbs  are  adorned  with  tasteful  villas,  and  afford  inviting  drives  and  charming  pros- 
pects. Of  principal  interest  among  its  suburban  attractions  are  the  crags  known  as 
East  and  West  Rocks — two  bold  and  striking  bluffs  of  trap-rock,  lifting  themselves,  in 
magnificent  array  of  opposition,  about  four  hundred  feet  out  of  the  plain  which  skirts 
the  city.  Their  geological  origin  was  probably  some  anomalous  volcanic  convulsion ;  and 
their  grim  heights  may  have  sentinelled,  in  remote  ages  of  our  planet,  the  flow  of  the 
Connecticut  River  between  their  august  feet  to  the   Sound.      Their    summits    afford    very 


SCENES     IN     BRIDGEPORT,     STRATFORD,     AND     MILFORD. 


444  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

fine  but  quite  dissimilar  prospects.  East  Rock  overlooks  the  ample  interval  and  river- 
reaches  of  the  Quinnipiac  Valley,  which  are  almost  hidden  from  West  Rock.  The  view 
of  the  beautiful  city  from  East  Rock  has  afforded  to  the  pencil  of  our  artist  rare  scope 
for  boldness,  amid  the  average  level  of  the  landscape.  The  cliffs  are  rough,  and  difficult 
to  climb,  but  they  well  repay  the  toil  of  surmounting  them,  while,  from  the  top  of 
either,  the  spectator  may  stretch  his  vision,  and  feel,  with  the  poet — 

"What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land, 
And  noisy  town? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand, 
From  its  white  Hne  of  glimmering  sand, 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  over  bluer  waves  shuts  down." 

On  East  Rock  there  is  a  little  inn,  where  the  weary  pilgrim  may  obtain  refresh- 
ment in  summer.  While  this  rocky  crest  is  more  easily  accessible  than  the  other,  and 
certainly  bears  the  palm  in  breadth  of  view,  the  West  Rock  has  the  counterbalance  to 
these  advantages  of  a  positive  historic  charm  in  the  shape  of  the  Regicides'  or  Judges' 
Cave.  In  a  deep  cleft,  among  a  wild  group  of  large,  loose  bowlders,  the  famous  regi- 
cides Goffe  and  Whalley  were  concealed  for  several  days,  in  1661.  This  cave  is  reached 
by  a  difficult  path  over  the  rocky  table  of  the  cliff  The  legend  is,  that  the  regicides 
were  frightened  out  of  this  inhospitable  place  by  the  glittering  eyes  of  some  wild  animal 
glaring  in  upon  them. 

The  water-supply  of  the  city  is  pent  up  on  West  Rock,  in  a  lake  having  a  super- 
ficies of  seventy-five  acres,  and  formed  by  an  extensive  dam  of  rock  and  earthwork. 
The  water-works  are  planted  near  the  foot  of  the  rock,  and  close  at  hand  is  Maltby 
Park,  a  tract  of  eight  hundred  acres,  most  tastefully  laid  out,  and  in  the  course  of  ele- 
gant embellishment. 

The  view  of  the  city  from  Fort  Hill,  which  is  included  in  the  accompanying  series 
of  illustrations,  is  a  picture  which  well  rewards  the  visitor  for  an  excursion  to  the  point 
in  question,  which  was  once  the  site  of  an  old  fortification,  of  which,  however,  few  traces 
remain.  The  corner  vignettes  of  this  beautiful  picture  have  all  found  some  mention  in 
the  text,  as  objects  and  points  of  great  interest.  The  meadows,  or  plains,  which  lie 
northward  of  the  city,  and  out  of  which  the  great  ranges  of  trap-rock  vault,  as  it  were, 
into  the  sky,  are  well  pictured  at  the  bottom  of  the  artistic  page. 

The  railway  reach  of  fifty  miles,  from  New  Haven  to  New  London,  is  less  attractive 
in  picturesque  elements  than  the  same  distance,  which  this  sketch  has  already  overpassed, 
from  Greenwich  to  New  Haven.  There  are  not  wanting,  however,  points  of  historic 
interest ;  and  the  whole  region  has  attractions  to  those  who  love  boating  and  fishing. 
Fairhaven  oysters  have  a  fame  of  their  own. 

Branford  and  Guilford,  eight  and  sixteen  miles  respectively  from  New  Haven,  have 
their    beaches ;    and  numerous  hotels  invite  summer  guests  to  the  enjoyment    of   delicious 


I 

R 


NEW     HAVEN     AND     VICINITY. 


446 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


breezes,  with   bathing    and    boating    at    pleasure.      Guilford    is    both    the    birth    and  burial 
place   of  the  poet    Halleck,  although   he   spent  much   of  his  life  in   New  York. 

The  aboriginal  history  and  traditions  of  this  region,  and,  indeed,  of  all  the  Connecti- 
cut   shore    of   Long -Island    Sound,  are    full    of  interest   to   the    antiquarian    and    student. 


The  New-Haven    Elms. 


Guilford  shares  with   New  Haven  the  fame  of  having  given   shelter  for  a  season  to  the 
regicides. 

Between  Branford  and  Guilford  lies  Stony  Creek,  a  railway-station,  from  which  a 
pleasant  excursion  may  be  made  to  the  Thimble  Islands,  a  picturesque  group  of  rocky 
and  wooded  islets.      The    names   of  Money  and    Pot,   belonging   to    two    of  this    cluster, 


NEW     HAVEN,     VIEW     FROM     EAST     ROCK. 


448  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

may  well  suggest  to  the  reader  the  legends  of  Captain  Kidd  and  his  hidden  treasures ; 
and  these  localities  have  again  and  again  tempted  the  cupidity  of  deluded  diggers. 

The  old  and  quaintly  rural  village  of  Saybrook  lies  thirty  miles  east  from  New  Ha- 
ven, and,  just  beyond  it,  the  Connecticut  River  flows  into  the  Sound.  Beyond  the  Con- 
necticut, eastward,  lie  the  villages  of  Lyme,  three  of  the  name,  and  also  of  Waterford, 
covering  a  reach  of  seventeen  miles  to  the  banks  of  the  Thames  River  at  New  London. 
All  this  tract  was  once  the  home  and  hunting-grounds  of  the  Niantic  Indians,  a  Narra- 
ganset  clan,  whose  somewhat  renowned  sachem,  Ninigret,  defeated  the  Long-Island  tribes. 

New  London,  less  attractive,  perhaps,  than  either  Bridgeport  or  New  Haven,  is 
nevertheless  a  pleasant  town.  It  has  great  facilities  for  traffic  and  communication  both 
by  land  and  water,  railways  and  steamboats  connecting  it  with  New  York,  and  various 
iron  ways  leading  out  of  it  to  the  north  and  east. 

The  Pequot  House,  which  is  picturesquely  situated  on  the  Harbor  road,  about  two 
miles  from  the  city,  and  at  the  mouth  of  the  Thames,  is  one  of  the  most  fashionable 
summer  resorts  along  the  shore.  It  is  surrounded  by  quite  an  extensive  settlement  of 
pretty  cottages,  rented  for  the  fashionable  season  to  families  from  the  cities  ;  and  upon 
the  opposite  shore  of  the  Thames  are  also  abundant  accommodations  for  summer  guests, 
though  of  a  little  lower  rate  of  expense,  if  not,  perhaps,  of  real  comfort. 

The  harbor  of  New  London  is  defended  by  two  forts,  which,  in  these  times  of 
peace,  frown  only  at  each  other  from  opposite  sides  of  the  river.  Fort  Trumbull  is  a 
massive  granite  structure  on  the  west  shore,  and  in  perfect  condition  ;  while  Fort  Gris- 
wold,  on  the  eastern  side,  is  little  more  than  the  remnant  of  old  earthworks,  of  historic 
interest,  although  there  is  very  near  it  a  well-constructed  twenty-gun  battery,  in  good 
condition. 

Around,  or  rattier  beneath,  the  latter,  spreads  the  village  of  Groton,  once  a  suburb 
of  New  London,  and  now  closely  connected  with  it  by  steam  ferries,  at  one  of  which 
the  trains  of  the  Shore-Line  route  are  transported  bodily  across  the  river.  Groton  is  a 
centre  of  historic  and  revolutionary  memories.  The  tourist  should  make  an  excursion  to 
the  ruins  of  Fort  Griswold,  the  scene  of  the  infamous  murder  of  Colonel  Ledyard, 
with  his  own  sword,  by  the  Tory  officer  to  whom  he  had  honorably  surrendered  it. 

Near  by  is  the  monument  erected'  in  memory  of  the  soldiers  who  were  massacred 
in  that  surrender.  It  is  a  granite  obelisk,  nearly  one  hundred  and  thirty  feet  high,  and, 
besides  its  commemorative  tablets,  it  possesses  the  charm  of  such  a  broad  and  various 
view  from  its  summit  as  one  can  hardly  afford  to  miss  in  a  level  region,  and  one,  in- 
deed, which  is  not  surpassed  along  the  shores  of  the  sound.  It  realizes  fairly  the  poet's 
picture  of  the  height — 

"  Where  was  wide  wandering  for  the  greediest  eye, 
To  peer  about  upon  variety  ; 
Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim. 
And  trace  the  dwindling  edges  of  its  brim." 


NEW     LONDON     AND     NORVVICH. 


l^S 


450  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

This  point  affords  the  finest  view  of  the  city,  as  well  as  of  the  beautiful  harbor  of  New 
London.  The  city,  jointly  with  the  State  of  Connecticut,  recently  gave  to  the  United 
States  a  tract  of  land  on  the  east  bank  of  the  Thames,  where  a  navy-yard  is  established. 
It  borders  the  widening  reaches  of  the  river  about  the  village  of  Groton. 

At  New  London,  the  tourist  who  follows  the  course  of  this  rapid  sketch  will  have 
to  make  a  slight  departure  from  the  strict  shore-line  of  the  sound,  taking,  if  he  pleases, 
the  railway,  or,  better  still,  a  charming  drjve  to  Norwich,  thirteen  miles  along  the  west 
bank  of  the  picturesque  Thames. 

He  may  linger,  if  he  will,  a  little  while  at  Mohegan,  five  miles  south  of  Norwich, 
where,  upon  the  highest  land  in  the  village,  stands  the  ancient  fortress  of  Uncas.  Here, 
also,  he  may  see  some  remnants  of  the  once  famous  tribe  which  that  brave  but  treacher- 
ous chief  led  so  often  on  the  war-path.  It  may,  indeed,  be  better  that  he  should  not 
encounter  these  degenerate  sons  of  the  forest — half-breeds  at  the  best — unless  he  is  pre- 
pared to  resign  all  his  romantic  and  poetical  impressions  of  the  lofty  heroism  and  splen- 
did qualities  of  the  aboriginal  red-men  of  the  New-England  forests  and  hills.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  present  aspect  of  the  Pequot  or  Mohegan  remnants  to  aid  him  in  the 
maintenance  of  his  old  and  it  may  be  obstinately  cherished  fancies. 

Norwich  is  a  larger  and  finer  city  than  its  neighbor,  New  London,  and  of  a  very 
romantic  aspect,  much  of  the  town  being  built  on  terraces,  lying  between  the  Yantic 
and  Shetucket  Rivers,  which,  by  their  confluence  there,  make  the  Thames.  It  has  really 
noble  avenues,  with  fine  trees,  antique  and  modern  mansions,  and  very  handsome  public 
buildings. 

The  monument  of  Uncas  is  a  prime  object  of  antiquarian  interest  in  the  city.  It 
is  a  granite  obelisk,  standing  in  the  midst  of  other  memorial  stones  built  to  commemo- 
rate the  ferocious  exploits  of  immemorial  chieftains  and  warriors  of  the  Mohegans.  Un- 
cas was  once  a  great  sachem  of  the  Pequots,  but  he  became  afterward,  by  revolt  and 
secession,  the  most  renowned  leader  of  the  Mohegans  for  fifty  years,  during  which  period 
he  elevated  them  in  point  of  influence,  and  held  them,  in  spite  of  many  wars  with  other 
tribes,  to  peaceful  relations  with  the  colonists.  The  monument  to  Uncas  was  built  in 
1 84 1.  A  cluster  of  gloomy  pine-trees  infolds  this  Indian  cemetery,  not  far  from  the  site 
of  the  once  highly  picturesque  falls  of  the  Yantic,  which,  however,  have  dwindled  greatly 
from  their  old  renown  under  the  encroachments  of  both  natural  and  artificial  changes,  so 
that  the  tourist  is  puzzled  to  account  for  the  enthusiasm  which  inspired  the  early  poets 
and  topographers  in  their  praises  of  the  wild,  tumultuous  lapse  of  the  Yantic. 

The  glimpse  which  the  artist  has  given  of  Norwich,  in  the  fine  general  view  and 
in  the  dainty  side-scenes  which  accompany  it,  are  fit  suggestions  of  the  picturesqueness 
of  its  ways  and  of  its  romantic  environs,  much  relieved  from  the  oppressive  monotony 
of  the  more  level  shore  along  which  this  sketch  has  been  compelled,  by  the  require- 
ments of  art,  to  run. 


LAKE    MEMPHREMAGOG 


WITH       ILLUSTRATIONS      BY      J.      DOUGLAS      WOODWARD 


Owl's    Head   Landing. 


I  ^HE  journey    northward   may   be    made    in   thirty-six    hours,  or   it    may    be   extended 
^       through  several  weeks.      The    route    from    the    metropoHs    divides  the  Connecticut 
Valley,  that  fair  reach  of  glistening  stream  and  forest  dell  leading  beyond  into  mountain 
mysteries.     Nature  wears  her  bridal  robes,  softly  colored,  fragrant,  and  bright — 


452  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

"  First  a  lake, 
Tinted  with  sunset ;    next,   the  wavy  lines 
Of  the  far-reaching  hills  ;    and  yet  more  far, 
Monadnock  lifting  from  his  night  of  pines 
His  rosy  forehead  to  the  evening  star." 

You  may  start  out  from  your  city  home  for  Memphremagog  direct  ;  but,  in  such  a 
path-way  as  leads  through  the  valley,  you  will  linger,  inhaling  the  breath  of  the  daisy- 
scented  fields,  resting  the  wearied  mind  with  the  tranquil  sentiment  of  the  Arcadian  life 
that  dreams  in  the  brook-side  villages  on  your  way.  Grander  scenes  there  may  be,  but 
they  oppress  and  tire  us,  and  we  come  back  to  the  Connecticut  Valley  year  after  year, 
loving  it  the  more,  and  deriving  from  it  the  solace  that  empowers  us  for  renewed  toil 
at  the  treadmill  of  city  life.  Loitering  in  these  pastures  a  while,  we  arrive  at  the  foot 
of  Lake  Memphremagog  in  a  fit  state  of  mind  to  appreciate  its  beauties,  not  so  drowsy 
and  fagged-out  as  we  should  be  had  our  journey  been  unbroken.  We  disembark  at  the 
little  Vermont  town  of  Newport  ;  submit  ourselves  to  the  regimen  of  a  fashionable 
hotel ;  sleep  well,  and  dream  of  peace.  The  morning  breaks  on  a  bracing  day  in  the 
season  of  Nature's  most  gorgeous  transformation  ;  the  autumn  foliage  is  crowned  with 
the  richest  hues ;  our  fellow-tourists  have  less  of  the  jaded  expression  that  is  almost 
habitual  on  their  features,  and  so  all  circumstances  are  propitious  for  our  voyage  over 
the  lake. 

Some  people  tell  us  that  it  rivals  Lake  George,  but  this  admits  of  difference  of 
opinion  ;  yet  it  is  almost  impossible  that  there  should  be  any  thing  more  picturesque,  in 
the  exact  sense  of  that  word,  than  this  beautiful  expanse  with  the  awkward  name.  It  is 
overshadowed  by  mountains  and  bordered  by  dense  forests  and  grassy  reaches.  At  one 
point  it  is  in  Lower  Canada,  and  at  another  in  Northern  Vermont.  It  is  thirty  miles  long 
and  two  miles  wide ;  the  basin  that  holds  it  is  deep  and  narrow ;  numerous  islands  spring 
from  its  depths,  where  speckled  trout,  of  enormous  size,  dart  and  glimmer.  These  things 
are  imparted  to  us  by  an  old  resident,  a  freckled,  long-faced,  discoursive  down-easter,  as 
our  white  steamer  leaves  her  wharf  near  the  hotel  and  speeds  toward  the  other  end  of 
the  lake.  There  is  one  object  already  in  sight  that  we  have  been  instructed  not  to  miss 
— the  Owl's  Head,  a  mountain  surpassing  others  around  the  lake  in  form  and  size.  But 
it  is  yet  twelve  miles  distant,  and  in  the  mean  time  our  eyes  and  binocular  glasses  are 
attracted  by  many  other  enchantments  that  the  shore  sets  forth. 

Here  is  a  narrow  cape  jutting  out,  the  shimmering  ripples  tossing  in  play  around ; 
and  yonder  the  land  inclines  into  two  bays,  one  of  them  sheltering  the  boats  of  some 
lazy  boys,  who  are  stretched  on  the  thwarts,  with  their  vagabond  faces  raised  to  the  un- 
clouded sun.  The  shore  varies  in  character  :  for  a  mile  it  is  high  and  craggy,  and  then 
the  banks  are  low  and  rolling,  girt  by  a  belt  of  yellow  sand.  The  deep  water  readily 
imprints  the  colors  on  its  smooth  surface,  and  duplicates  the  forms  of  earth  and  sky. 
Past  Indian   Point  there  is  a  small  village,  and  farther  on  are  the  Twin  Sisters,  two    fair 


LAKE     MEMPHREMAGOG,     SOUTH     FROM     OWL'S     HEAD. 


454  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

islands,  thickly  wooded  with  a  growth  of  evergreens.  Beyond  we  see  another  village, 
and  soon  we  are  abreast  of  Province  Island,  a  cultivated  garden  of  one  hundred  acres. 
Nearer  the  eastern  shore  is  Tea-Table  Island,  a  charming  little  spot  with  many  cedar- 
groves,  whence  cometh  the  pleasant  laughter  of  a  picnic-party,  whose  fancifully-painted 
rowboats  are  moored  to  a  little  jetty. 

Now  we  bid  farewell  to  our  native  heath,  and  enter  British  waters,  with  British  soil 
to  the  right  and  to  the  left  of  us.  There  are  many  farm-houses  on  the  banks,  white- 
painted,  and  dazzling  in  the  sunlight.  It  is  a  national  duty  for  those  of  us  who  are  free- 
born  Americans  to  observe  that  the  houses  in  the  Canadian  territory  are  slovenly  and 
uncared  for,  without  the  evidences  of  prosperity  and  thrift  that  appear  in  those  situated 
on  our  own  soil.  But  let  us  confess  that  the  scenery  of  the  lake  does  not  diminish  in 
beauty.  There  are  no  marsh-lands  near  its  shore,  and  no  stagnant  pools.  The  banks  are 
invariably  picturesque,  almost  invariably  fertile  and  under  cultivation.  Here  is  Whetstone 
Island,  so  named  by  some  enterprising  Yankees,  who  used  the  stone  found  in  the  neigh- 
borhood for  axe-grinding,  until  her  majesty's  government  decided  that  they  were  trespass- 
ers, and  drove  them  away.  A  little  farther  in  our  course  lies  Magoon's  Point,  a  grassy 
slope  coming  to  the  water's  edge ;  and  yonder  is  a  cavern  with  a  legend.  Perhaps  you 
who  have  seen  so  many  caverns  with  legends  begin  to  regard  all  of  them  with  suspicion; 
but  this  one  and  its  legend  are  veritable.  Some  marauders  have  secreted  somewhere 
in  the  innermost  recesses  of  one  of  the  rocks  a  treasure-chest  of  immense  value,  stolen 
from  a  Roman  Catholic  cathedral.  There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  The  freckled,  long-faced 
down-easter  has  seen,  with  his  own  sharp  eyes,  two  massive  gold  candlesticks  that  were 
found  within  a  yard  or  two  of  the  entrance  ! 

We  are  fast  nearing  Owl's  Head.  The  boat  winds  in  and  out  between  the  cedar- 
robed  islands,  and  the  golden  haze  vanishes  into  the  clear  and  breezy  day.  We  do  not 
land  during  the  journey  down  the  lake,  but  pass  Owl's  Head,  with  only  a  glimpse  at  its 
magnificent  height.  We  also  speed  by  Round  Island,  cap-like  in  shape  ;  Minnow  Island, 
the  most  famous  fishing-place,  where  some  anglers  are  now  stationed  underneath  the  leafy 
boughs  ;  and  Skinner's  Island,  once  the  haunt  of  an  intrepid  smuggler,  who  snapped  his 
fingers  in  the  face  of  custom-house  officers,  and  whose  audacity  has  been  chronicled  in 
many  a  rhymed  story.  North  of  Skinner's  Cave  is  Long  Island,  covering  an  area  of 
about  a  square  mile,  with  a  rugged  shore.  At  one  place  the  shore  is  almost  perpen- 
dicular, and  on  the  southern  side  there  is  an  extraordinary  granite  bowlder,  balanced  on 
a  natural  pedestal,  named  Balance  Rock.  Hereabout,  too,  are  the  villas  of  some  wealthy 
Montreal  merchants,  enclosed  in  magnificent  parks  on  the  banks. 

Owl's  Head  is  the  most  prominent  mountain,  and  is  cone-shaped.  But,  in  our  pas- 
sage to  the  head  of  the  lake,  we  see  other  heights  that  do  not  fall  far  below  it. 
Here  is  Mount  Elephantus,  now  faintly  resembling  an  elephant's  back,  afterward  chang- 
ing, as  we  proceed  farther  north,  into  a  horseshoe  form.      The  water  deepens  ;    soundings 


LAKE     MEMPHREMAGOG,     NORTH      FROM     ONA'L'S     HEAD. 


456 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


show  three  hundred  feet  near  Gibraltar  Point,  where  the  rocks  are  sheer  to  the  water's 
edge.  The  sun  wanes  toward  the  west,  and  the  wind  grows  keener.  Yonder  is  Mount 
Oxford,  not  unlike  Owl's  Head ;  and  here  is  a  landing,  toward  which  our  steamer's 
prow  inclines.  We  are  at  the  foot  of  the  lake.  This  drowsy  little  town  is  Magog, 
and  attracts  few  of  us  ashore.  A  crowd  of  gaping  inhabitants  are  on  the  wharf  to  wel- 
come us,  and,  as  we  turn  down  the  lake  again,  they  break  into  a  feeble  but  well-mean- 
ing cheer.  The  night  comes  on,  and  we  haul  up  and  go  to  sleep  in  a  comfortable  hotel 
at  the  base  of  the  mountains. 

In  the  morning  we  ascend  Owl's  Head.  The  path-way  from  the  hotel  is  in  good 
condition,  overarched  by  pines  and  cedars,  bordered  by  pleasant  fields.  A  chorus  of 
birds  swells  through  the  thickets  ;  a  few  brown  squirrels  flee  before  us  as  we  advance. 
The  air  is  filled  with  the  fragrance  of  wild  -  flowers,  mosses,  and  ferns.  Occasionally, 
through  the  green  curtain  that  shelters  us  from  the  mounting  sun,  we  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  untroubled,  azure  sk)^  On  the  way  there  is  a  shelving  rock,  under  which  we  are 
sheltered  during  a  passing  shower  ;  and,  proceeding  farther,  we  reach  a  mass  of  stone, 
plumed  with  ferns,  and  covered  on  the  sides  with  a  velvety  moss.  The  summit  reached, 
we  have  such  a  view  as  rewards  our  toil.  Looking  south,  we  see  the  lake  from  end  to 
end,  its  islands  and  villages,  the  near  rivers  flashing  in  the  sunlight.  Looking  noith,  the 
picture  expands  into  other  beauties ;  and,  to  the  east  and  west,  there  are  more  lakes, 
plains,  islands,  and  mountains.  The  summit  itself  is  riven  into  four  peaks,  silent  ravines 
intervening  between  them.  Once  a  year  a  lodge  of  freemasons  meets  here,  and,  on  the 
face  of  the  "  Mountain   Mystery,"  are  written  some  cabalistic  signs  of  the  order. 


Mount    Elephantus,   from    the    Lake    Steamer. 


THE     MOHAWK,     ALBANY,     AND     TROY. 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY     MESSRS.     FENN    AND    WOODWARD. 


I  ^HERE  is  a  part  of  New -York  State  around  which  the  spell  of  the  pastoral  ages 
-^  has  surely  been  thrown,  and  which  gives  to  it  a  sentiment  of  extreme  antiquity 
for  which  history  refuses  to  account.  A  round  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  are  all 
for  which  the  Muse  of  History  considers  herself  responsible ;  and  yet,  throughout 
this  region,  there  is  an  atmosphere  of  peace  and  quiet,  as  if  aeons  of  happy  years  had 
glided  away  since  first  man  led  cows  to  graze  and  sheep  to  nibble  at  the  fat  pastures. 
This    pastoral    country  is  the  valley  of  the    Mohawk,  a  river  whose  true   Indian  designa- 

139 


458 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


1^      «!'    i'>V^  'HI!iV  K 

■Vi  ■IHillllllllllMIl  A     .    !1.    1    IfS«^ 


III 

iLiiiii,.;iff 


"It  if  'If  *' ' 


Ji 


llili;* 


liilB*:^ 


o 


H 


tion  is  unknown,  but 
which  has  preserved 
the  name  of  the  abo- 
rigines who  dwelt 
upon  its  banks. 

The  Mohawk  ris- 
es in  Oneida  County, 
about  twenty  miles 
north  of  Rome  ;  flows 
southeast  and  east, 
falling  into  the  Hud- 
son, after  a  stretch 
of  one  hundred  and 
thirty-five  miles,  ten 
miles  above  Albany. 
It  is  but  a  petty 
stream  near  its  origin, 
nor  is  it  fed  by  im- 
portant tributaries  un- 
til it  has  passed  the 
city  of  Utica.  It  is 
clear  that  the  impetus 
of  the  city  was  not 
derived  from  the  river, 
but  from  the  Erie 
Canal ;  for  the  streets 
are  all  built  in  the 
proximity  of  the  lat- 
ter, and  the  former  is 
outside  of  the  town  al- 
together. It  meanders 
placidly  past,  travel- 
ling very  slowly,  and 
with  more  turns  and 
bends  than  that  fa- 
mous river  in  Asia 
Minor  which  Xeno- 
phon  has  immortal- 
ized, and  from  which 


THE    MOHAWK,   ALBANY,   AND    TROY. 


459 


we  get  the  word  meander. 
But,  though  the  town  neg- 
lects it,  the  farms  do  not ; 
and  on  every  side  are  long, 
tranquil  meadows,  studded 
with  trees  that  mount  up 
from  the  water's  edge  with 
a  most  gradual  ascent.  The 
Erie  Canal,  going  still  more 
slowly  than  the  placid  Mo- 
hawk, is  on  one  side  of  it ; 
and  the  puffing,  panting  loco- 
motives of  the  New -York 
Central  Railroad  go  shrieking 
past  on  the  other.  Beyond 
the  meadows  rise  gentle  hills, 
whose  sides  are  thick  with 
trees  that  glance  and  gleam 
in  the  sunlight  as  the  frolic- 
some winds  display  the  up- 
per and  the  lower  sides  of 
the  leaves.  The  cattle  graze 
close  to  the  river,  near  the 
bulrushes ;  and  the  sheep  feed 
higher  up,  where  the  grass  is 
shorter  and  less  rank.  All 
kinds  of  birds  that  love  the 
fat  worms  of  the  rich  pastoral 
soil  flit  from  bush  to  bush, 
or  perch  upon  the  tame  backs 
of  the  cows,  or  even  upon 
the  horns  of  some  dignified 
old  ram.  And  the  river  goes 
murmuring  on  through  this 
scene  of  quiet  happiness  until 
it  comes  to  a  place  where 
the  Adirondack  Mountains 
have  thrown  out  a  line  of 
skirmishing    rocks,    and    here 


46o  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

the  tranquillity  of  the  Mohawk  is  brought  to  an  abrupt  conclusion.  This  is  at  Little 
Falls.  It  must  be  confessed  that  the  skirmishers  of  the  mountains,  in  pursuance  of 
the  eternal  war  waged  between  the  rocks  and  the  rivers,  have  here  made  a  most 
tremendous  and  determined  onslaught,  for  the  place  is  literally  heaped  with  rocks. 
They  are  everywhere — cropping  up  between  the  houses,  over  the  roofs,  in  the  gardens ; 
bursting  out  of  the  sides  of  the  green  hills,  that  here  become  really  mountains ;  and  start- 
ing up  in  the  bed  of  the  river  in  the  most  perplexing  manner.  The  river  here 
makes  a  descent  of  over  forty  feet,  accomplishing  the  effort  in  three  small  falls,  which 
have  been  turned  to  great  profit  by  the  people  of  the  town,  for  they  furnish  water-power 
to  a  great  many  factories.  These,  for  the  most  part,  are  upon  the  island  which  springs 
up  in  the  river  below  the  first  fall ;  and  this  island  is  perhaps  the  rockiest  part  of  the 
whole  settlement.  The  Erie  Canal  runs  through  a  channel  blasted  out  of  the  solid  rock 
at  the  foot  of  a  steep  hill,  which  rises  on  the  east  side  of  the  river,  and  is  called  the 
Rollaway. 

On  the  other  side  rises  another  hill,  not  so  precipitous,  but  higher,  and  terraced 
upward  with  grand,  curving  lines,  that  show  clearly  the  erosive  power  of  the  Mohawk  in 
past  times.  It  had  its  turbulent  youth,  also  ;  and  the  day  was  when  it  swept  these  hills 
with  a  fierce  current  that  laughed  at  such  puny  obstacles.  Now  it  glides  peacefully  on- 
ward, and  sings  with  a  pleased  murmur  to  the  fat  cattle,  and  the  impudent  birds  that  sip 
of  its  waters  and  toss  their  heads  half  disdainfully. 

But  there  are  witnesses  still  extant  of  what  the  waters  did  in  the  remote  past ;  for 
here  is  Profile  Rock,  where  the  hard  stone  has  been  so  mauled,  and  had  its  stratification 
so  handled,  that  the  very  fair  likeness  to  a  human  profile  has  been  washed  out.  That 
tow-path,  where  the  canal-horses  tug  and  strain  so,  is  the  favorite  drive  of  the  towns- 
people, and,  indeed,  the  good  folks  have  nowhere  else  to  drive,  being  circumvented  and 
hemmed  in  by  their  rocky  girdle.  Accordingly,  the  Profile  Rock  is  one  of  the  institu- 
tions of  the  place ;  and  the  stranger  within  the  gates  who  should,  out  of  pure  "  cussed- 
ness,"  refuse  to  see  any  resemblance  to  the  human  visage,  would  be  considered  very — 
impolite,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  The  view  along  the  canal  tow-path  is  exceedingly  inter- 
esting. The  side  of  the  Rollaway  runs  along  the  canal  for  several  miles,  and  is  clothed 
with  a  fine  growth  of  trees — stately,  dark  pines ;  white  beeches,  with  gleaming,  silvery 
trunks ;  and  bending  aspens,  here  and  there.  On  the  other  side  is  the  Mohawk,  once 
more  united,  for  the  rocky  island  terminates  at  the  end  of  the  town.  The  rocks,  how- 
ever, continue ;  and,  though  of  no  height,  are  strangely  varied  in  shape,  and  beautifully 
mingled  with  bosky  shrubs  and  thick  bushes,  waving  grasses  and  delicate  harebells.  But 
gradually  the  Rollaway  dwindles  to  a  bank,  and  the  rocks  to  pebbles ;  and,  after  the  Sus- 
pension Bridge  is  passed,  the  Mohawk  is  itself  again,  and  the  pastoral  era  is  renewed. 

From  this  point  to  Schenectady  may  be  termed  the  heart  of  the  Mohawk  Valley. 
It  is  difficult  to  say  which  offers  the  most  picturesque    and    pleasing  view — the  valley  of 


462 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Profile  Rock. 


the  Mohawk  from  the  Rollaway,  looking  westward,  or  from  the  Suspension  Bridge,  be- 
low Little  Falls,  looking  eastward.  Both  have  the  same  pastoral  beauty ;  both  have  the 
same  low  hills,  the  same  embowering  trees.  There  is  a  regularity  about  the  lines  of  the 
former  which  will  commend  itself  to  the  lovers  of  symmetry,  and  there  is  a  picturesque 
looseness   about   the  latter  which  many  will    deem    more    artistic.      To  Americans — eager, 


THE    MOHAWK,   ALBANY,   AND     TROY. 


463 


pushing,  bustling,  ever  on 
the  lookout  for  spheres  of 
action,  for  possibilities  of 
enterprise — there  is  a  some- 
thing here  of  peaceful  en- 
joyment which  sinks  deep 
into  the  heart.  It  is  a  restful 
place,  emphatically.  Hence 
we  cannot  be  surprised  when 
we  find  Schenectady,  the 
capital  of  this  region,  par- 
taking of  this  quiet,  unen- 
ergetic  character ;  and  this 
city  has  this,  also,  in  com- 
mon with  the  surroundings, 
that  it  appears  much  older 
than  it  really  is.  Its  lovers 
— and  it  has  many — claim 
for  it  the  title  of  the  oldest 
city  in  the  State.  This 
claim  rests  entirely  upon  the 
date  of  the  first  settlement 
of  Albany,  which  some  de- 
clare to  have  taken  place  in 
1614,  and  others  in  1623  ; 
but  there  is  some  confusion 
about  the  matter,  because 
there  was  undeniably  a  time 
when  the  Indians  called 
both  Skaunoghtada,  which 
means  "  town  across  the 
plains."  However  that  may 
be,  in  those  remote  times  it 
is  certain  that  Schenectady 
proper  was  more  flourishing 
than  Albany.  It  was  at  the 
head  of  the  rich  Mohawk 
Valley,  and  did  an  immense 
business     in     dairy     produce 


^ 
^ 


AWmw 


464 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


and  Indian  peltries.  The  In- 
dians seem  to  have  lived  in 
harmony  with  the  Dutch  set- 
tlers for  many  years,  and  it 
was  not  until  1690  that  they 
suddenly  became  enemies. 
On  this  occasion,  the  whole 
population,  save  sixty  souls, 
was  annihilated ;  and  the 
town  was  destroyed  by  fire. 
It  was  burned  again  in  1 748, 
which  gives  it  quite  a  his- 
tory ;  and  the  most  astonish- 
ing thing  about  it  is,  that  it 
looks  as  if  it  had  been  ex- 
isting for  untold  generations. 
The  Mohawk,  at  this  point, 
is  broad  and  deep,  and  the 
old  wooden  bridge  that  spans 
it  is  a  pretty  long  one ;  for 
the  stream  has  been  recruited 
by  several  large  tributaries 
since  it  swept  by  the  city  of 
Utica,  the  chief  contribution 
coming  from  the  West  Ka- 
nahta  Creek,  which,  after 
dashing  down  the  wildly- 
beautiful  Trenton  Falls,  glides 
peaceably  enough  into  the 
placid  bosom  of  the  Mo- 
hawk, and  remembers  its  past 
furious  excitement  only  in 
dreams. 

Beyond  Schenectady  the 
river  sweeps  on  with  a  majesty 
obtained  from  its  increased 
volume,  but  the  country  is  not 
so  pastoral  as  it  was.  The 
soil  is  shaly,  and  the  hills  are 


THE    MOHAWK,   ALBANY,   AND    TROY. 


465 


Cohoes    Falls. 


low.  At  Cohoes  there  is  a  great  fall ;  about  a  mile  above  the  falls,  the  river,  broad  and 
deep  as  it  is,  has  been  hemmed  in  by  a  dam,  and  a  great  portion  of  its  waters  drawn  off 
by  a  water-power  company.  The  little  town  of  Cohoes  is  entirely  manufacturing.  It 
is  the  Lowell  of  New  York.  Here  are  the  great  Harmony  Cotton-Mills ;  and  here, 
also,  are  some  twenty-five  woollen-mills,  besides  paper-factories  and  other  industries.  The 
falls  of  Cohoes  are  quite  close  to  the  Harmony  Mills ;  and  a  capital  view  can  be 
obtained  of  them,  either  from  the  bank   in  rear  of  one  of  the  mills,  or  from  an  island  in 

130 


466  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

the  river,  at  some  distance  below.  Very  much  depends  upon  the  season  of  the  year  as 
regards  the  impression  which  the  falls  make  upon  the  mind  of  a  traveller.  In  the  dry 
season  there  is  but  little  water,  and  hence  the  upper  part  of  the  falls  appears  like  a 
series  of  grand  rapids.  In  the  early  summer  there  is  one  tremendous  descent  of  water, 
falling  over  seventy  feet.  The  banks  on  either  side  are  high  and  shaly,  crowned  gen- 
erally with  dark  pines  at  the  summit,  and  showing,  below,  a  diagonal  stratification,  as  if 
they  had  been  upheaved. 

Below  the  falls  the  river  is  divided  by  a  green  island,  the  favorite  resort  of  picnickers 
from  the  neighboring  city  of  Troy.  This  is  a  great  manufacturing  centre,  especially  of 
metals,  and  therefore  abounding  in  tall  chimneys  vomiting  forth  black  smoke.  For  this 
reason  the  inhabitants,  who  love  to  call  themselves  Trojans,  prefer  to  dwell  upon  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  which  is  only  a  mile  or  so  from  Cohoes.  It  is  here  that  the 
junction  of  the  Mohawk  and  the  Hudson  takes  place,  between  East  and  West  Troy. 
There  is  here,  also,  a  large  island,  on  which  the  Troy  Bridge  finds  a  support  for  its  cen- 
tral part.  The  view  here  of  the  bustling  place  is  inspiriting,  and  makes  one  as  eager  to 
be  up  and  doing  as  the  pastoral  scenes  of  the  Mohawk  Valley  made  us  wish  to  live 
and  die  shepherds.  Troy  is  a  city  of  some  fifty  thousand  inhabitants,  situated  at  the 
mouth  of  Poestenkill  Creek,  six  miles  above  Albany,  and  a  hundred  and  fifty-one  miles 
above  New  York — an  active,  enterprising,  and  bustling  city. 

Albany,  which  now  numbers  over  seventy  thousand  souls  within  its  borders,  is  a 
great  railroad  centre,  and  the  main  point  of  departure  for  Western  travellers.  It  is  the 
terminus  of  nearly  all  the  great  steamboat  lines  of  the  Hudson  ;  but  its  chief  importance 
is  that  of  being  the  capital  of  the  great  Empire  State.  Albany  is  the  oldest  settlement 
in  the  original  thirteen  colonies,  except  Jamestown,  Virginia.  Henry  Hudson,  in  the 
yacht  Half-Moon,  moored  in  September,  1609,  at  a  point  which  is  now  in  Broadway, 
Albany.  Several  Dutch  navigators  ascended  the  river  to  the  same  place  during  the  next 
three  or  four  years;  and  in  16 14  the  Dutch  built  the  first  fort  on  an  island  below  the 
present  city,  which  is  hence  called  Castle  Island.  In  161 7  a  fort  was  built  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Normanskill ;  and  in  1628  another  w^as  erected  near  the  present  steamboat-land- 
ing in  the  south  part  of  the  city,  and  named  Fort  Orange.  A  quadrangular  fort,  called 
Fort  Frederick,  was  afterward  built  on  the  high  ground,  now  State  Street,  between  St. 
Peter's  Church  and  the  Geological  Hall,  with  lines  of  palisades  extending  down  Steuben 
and  Hudson  Streets  to  the  river.  These  fortifications  were  demolished  soon  after  the 
Revolution.  The  place  was  called,  by  the  Dutch,  New  Orange,  and  retained  that  name 
until  the  whole  province  passed  into  possession  of  the  English,  in  1664,  when  New 
Orange  was  changed  to  Albany,  in  honor  of  the  Duke  of  York  and  Albany,  afterward 
James  II.  In  1686  Albany  City  was  incorporated  by  patent.  Peter  Schuyler  was  the 
first  mayor.  The  Schuyler  family  possessed  the  good-will  of  the  Indians  to  such  a  degree 
that,  while  other  settlements  were  desolated  by  Indian  forays,  Albany  was  never  attacked 


468 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


by  them.  Besides  its  ancient 
importance  as  a  centre  of  the 
Indian  trade,  Albany  after- 
ward became  the  point  where 
the  great  mihtary  expeditions 
against  Canada  were  fitted  out. 
It  was  fortified  at  an  early 
period  ;  and,  although  often 
threatened  with  invasion,  no 
hostile  army  ever  reached  the 
city.  Here  assembled  the  first 
convention  for  the  union  of 
the  colonies.  It  was  held  in 
1754,  Benjamin  Franklin  be- 
ing presiding  officer. 

There  are  two  views  of 
Albany  which  are  specially 
good ;  one  is  from  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  where  the 
city  rises  up  from  the  west- 
ern bank  in  irregular  terraces, 
the  culminating  point  being 
crowned  with  the  capitol,  em- 
bowered amid  the  foliage  of 
old  trees.  Soon  a  more  pala- 
tial and  dazzling  building  will 
take  the  place  of  the  present 
structure,  and  will  give  to  the 
heights  of  Albany  a  magnifi- 
cent apex.  Up  and  down 
the  river,  the  city  stretches  far 
and  wide,  with  coaling-stations 
and  founderies  to  the  south, 
and,  to  the  north,  long  ranges 
of  cattle-wards.  Above,  the 
hills  of  the  town  rise,  cov- 
ered with  fine  old  houses,  and 
towering  churches,  and  mas- 
sive legislative  halls,  and  huge 


SCENES     IN     AND     AROUND     ALBANY. 


470 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


caravansaries  of  hotels.  The 
other  view  shuts  out  the  river 
almost — at  least,  all  the  activ- 
ity along  the  western  bank — 
and  gives  to  the  eye  a  wider 
stretch  of  vision.  Looking 
from  Kenwood,  one  sees  the 
city  foreshortened,  and  gath- 
ered into  a  huge  mass ;  while 
the  two  bridges  across  the 
Hudson,  and  the  labyrinthine 
railway-lines  of  East  Albany, 
become  very  prominent.  The 
elevators,  and  the  tall  chim- 
neys, with  their  black  smoke 
above,  and  jet  of  red  fire  be- 
low, rising  from  the  iron- 
works, and  all  the  industrial 
part  upon  the  extremity  of 
the  city,  come  plainly  into 
view.  One  can  see  the  mass- 
es of  foliage  of  the  trees  in 
Washington  Park,  and  the 
brown  sedges  of  the  flats 
above  the  town.  Far  in  the 
distance  lie  quiet  hills,  on 
whose  sides  the  reapers  are 
at  work  on  the  browned 
wheat ;  while  at  the  base  are 
serried  lines  of  trees  that 
may  have  stood  there  in  the 
old  days,  when  the  Mohawks 
ruled  the  land.  From  the 
summits  of  those  hills,  look- 
ing northward,  one  can  see, 
with  the  utmost  distinctness, 
the  junction  of  the  broad 
Hudson  with  the  quiet  Mo- 
hawk. 


THE    UPPER    DELAWARE. 


WITH      ILLUSTRATIONS      BY      J.      DOUGLAS      WOODWARD, 


High    Falls,   Dingman's   Creek. 


^  1  ''HE     artist     has    been 
-*-      wandering    from    the 
beaten    path    again,  on  this 
journey  following  the    Up- 
per Delaware  one    hundred 
inile^    in    Us    course  northward.      His  start- 
inj^-pouit    is    twenty-four    miles    above    the 
Dcliwni     W  III  r- Gap,    at    a    place    called 
Diniiinan's     Iciry.       In    the    neighborhood 
htuaboiii   \\\i.    streams  are  broken    into    sev- 
eral   picturesque    falls,    the    most    important 


THE    UPPER    DELAWARE.  473 

of  which  are  the  High  Falls,  shown  in  our  first  sketch.  It  was  in  the  morning  when 
we  first  rambled  through  the  bosky  approaches  to  this  cascade  ;  and,  after  leaping  down 
slippery,  moss-covered  rocks,  we  reached  the  foot,  only  to  find  a  thin  stream  of  water 
trickling  down,  with  very  little  music,  and  less  spray.  The  weather  had  been  dry — but 
that  fact  scarcely  consoled  us — and  we  could  only  admire  the  tints  of  the  rocks,  and  the 
foliage  that  seemed  to  grow  out  of  the  basin  into  which  the  waters  made  their  first  leap 
before  rushing  through  a  narrow  bit  of  hill  and  descending  to  a  lower  level.  The  artist 
was  content,  thankful  for  the  smallest  share  of  Nature's  bounty ;  but  the  literary  soul 
was  disappointed  and  growling. 

We  were  retracing  our  steps  to  the  hostelry  leisurely,  when  the  premonitions  of  a 
storm  urged  us  into  a  quicker  pace.  Gusts  of  wind  soughed  among  the  trees,  and  heavy 
drops  of  rain  pattered  fast  on  the  trembling  leaves  and  parched  earth.  The  sunshine  was 
hidden  beneath  the  gray  clouds  that  came  rolling  from  the  east.^  We  considered  our- 
selves in  for  a  wet  day,  and  we  dozed  near  the  veranda,  pufhng  at  our  brier  pipes  in  a 
mood  of  bachelor  meditation. 

But  in  the  afternoon  there  was  clearer  and  warmer  weather,  and  we  again  tramped 
to  the  foot  of  the  High  Falls.  If  the  spirit  of  the  artist  was  content  before,  it  was 
aglow  now.  The  scene  had  changed,  and,  instead  of  a  mere  thread  of  water,  there  was 
a  bubbling,  foaming,  boisterous  torrent,  echoing  its  voice  in  the  walls  of  the  hills  through 
the  veins  of  which  it  found  a  sparkling  way.  The  moss  in  the  crevices  held  glittering 
drops  on  its  velvety  surface  ;  and  the  branches  of  overarching  trees  looked  as  though 
they,  too,  were  crystallized.  The  changing  position  of  the  clouds  threw  shadows  across 
the  water,  varying  its  tints,  and  first  giving  it  the  appearance  of  a  pure  white,  then  of  a 
faint  green,  afterward  of  a  soft  blue.  The  artist  drew  our  attention  this  way  and  that — ■ 
one  moment  toward  yonder  darkling  hollow  in  the  rocks,  as  the  spray  dashed  itself  into 
the  brown  seams ;  next  toward  the  water,  as  the  light  played  ever-new  tricks  with  it ; 
and  then  to  a  little  pool  formed  in  the  cup  of  a  bowlder.  That  keen  eye  of  his  dis- 
covered effects  in  the  smallest  nooks,  underneath  the  fronds  of  the  tiniest  fern,  among 
the  grains  of  sand  that  lodged  in  the  crevices,  and  in  the  swaying  shadows  of  the  forms 
around.  He  occupied  us  constantly  for  more  than  two  full  hours,  and  was  even  then 
inclined  to  linger,  although  our  journey  was  long  and  the  time  short. 

From  the  ferry  we  proceeded  toward  Milford.  The  stage-road  runs  along  the  base 
of  a  mountain,  so  precipitous  as  to  resemble  the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson.  Atoms  of 
rock,  rolling  down,  have  made  the  bed  as  hard  as  concrete ;  and  they  have  been  spread 
so  evenly  that  travelling  is  smooth  and  comfortable.  The  outlook  is  magnificent.  The 
sheer  wall  of  the  mountain  is  on  one  side  of  us,  protecting  us  from  the  scorching  rays 
of  the  sun  ;  and  undulating  meadows  reach  afar  in  the  opposite  direction,  dotted  with 
many  a  snug  farm-house,  painted  red  or  white,  that  shows  its  thatched  roof  over  the  tops 
of  the  orchard.     The  river  glistens  through  this  green  expanse,  and  is  spanned,  here   and 

131 


PORT    JERVIS     AND     VICINITY. 


THE     UPPER     DELAWARE. 


476  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

there,  by  a  picturesque  bridge.     Still  farther  away  are  the  purple  lines  of  more  hills,  mys- 
terious in  the  haze  of  a  warm  autumn  morning. 

Some  distance  below  the  village  of  Milford,  we  reach  the  falls  of  the  Raymondskill, 
in  which  the  artist  finds  more  beauties  and  wonders.  The  torrent  tumbles  from  amonsf 
a  mass  of  foliage  down  a  rock,  and  is  broken  several  times  by  projections,  which  cause 
it  to  surge  and  foam  in  a  grand  tumult.  Three  miles  farther  in  our  course,  we  enter  the 
village,  which  is  prettily  situated  in  a  valley,  and  divided  through  the  centre  by  a  roman- 
tic glen.  Glens  always  are  romantic,  for  lovers  invariably  choose  to  make  love  in  their 
shade  and  quiet.  Who  that  reads  novels  ever  read  of  a  troth  pledged  in  the  sunlight  .? 
From  some  inscrutable  instinct,  it  is  always  done  in  shadowy  places  ;  and  here  in  Mil- 
ford  Glen,  on  a  summer's  afternoon  and  evening,  young  men  and  maidens  flock,  and  wan- 
der, arm-in-arm,  through  the  narrow  paths  and  murky  hollows.  The  Sawkill,  scarcely 
more  than  a  brook,  trembles  over  the  pebbles,  and  glints  vividly  as  a  stray  shaft  of  sun- 
light breaks  through  the  boughs  overhead.  Ferns,  mosses,  and  wild-flowers,  are  sprinkled 
on  the  path,  and  strive  to  hide  the  decay  of  a  felled  hemlock  that  rests  between  two 
sturdier  brothers.  It  is  a  lovely  spot,  picturesque  in  the  extreme,  a  fit  retreat  for  the 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses  of  the  Pennsylvania  Arcadia. 

Not  more  than  two  miles  farther  north  are  the  principal  falls  of  the  Sawkill,  which 
in  general  characteristics  much  resemble  the  High  Falls  and  the  Raymondskill.  As  in 
the  latter,  the  water  dashes  against  some  projecting  rocks  in  its  downward  course,  and 
is  broken  into  clouds  of  spray,  which  the  sunshine  colors  with  rainbow  hues.  The  vol- 
ume of  water  is,  in  reality,  divided  into  two  separate  falls  by  an  elbow  of  the  rock ; 
but,  before  the  two  reach  the  level  below,  they  commingle  in  one  snowy  mass. 

Following  the  windings  of  the  river,  our  next  stopping-place  was  Port  Jervis,  which 
borders  on  New  York,  New  Jersey,  and  Pennsylvania.  Near  here  the  Neversink  River 
enters  the  Delaware  from  a  valley  of  great  beauty.  We  followed  the  artist  to  a  place 
called  Mount  William,  from  which  there  is  a  superb  view  —  a  wide,  extended  plain, 
through  which  the  winding  river  can  be  traced  for  many  miles.  The  afternoon  was  far 
advanced,  and  the  sun  was  declining  westward.  The  whiteness  of  the  light  was  subdued, 
changing  into  a  pale  yellow,  that  soon  again  would  deepen  into  crimson.  You  see  how 
he  has  expressed  this  mellowness  in  the  gray  tone  of  his  sketch.  He  has  included,  too, 
a  considerable  range  of  ground,  bringing  in  the  opposite  hills,  the  town,  and  the  river. 
As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  land  is  under  cultivation.  In  yonder  wide  plain  there 
is  not  one  wild  acre  ;  and,  out  beyond  the  limits  of  the  little  town,  the  farm-houses  are 
numerous,  and  close  together. 

After  leaving  Port  Jervis,  we  touched  at  Lackawaxen,  to  get  a  sketch  of  the  Dela- 
ware and  Hudson  Canal  Aqueduct,  and  thence  continued  our  journey  to  Deposit,  in 
which  vicinity  the  scenery  becomes  grander  and  wilder.  The  artist's  work  tells  its  own 
story  more  eloquently  than  we  could,  and  we  have  no  further  notes  to  add  to  it. 


WATER-FALLS     AT     CAYUGA     LAKE 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    J.    DOUGLAS    WOODWARD. 


Taa:hanic    Falls. 


AYUGA      LAKE, 

111  the  western  cen- 
tral part  of  New -York 
State,  is  noted  for  a 
great  number  of  highly  pictu- 
resque and  beautiful  water-falls, 
found  mainly  at  the  head,  or 
southern  extremity,  of  the  lake, 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  town  of 
Ithaca,  famous,  not  only  for  its 
surrounding  scenery,  but  for  its 
distinguished  Cornell  University. 
The  head  of  Cayuga  lies  nearly 
four  hundred  feet  below  the 
level  of  the  surrounding  coun- 
try, while  a  remarkable  feature 
of  this  elevation  is  a  number 
of  ravines  and  gorges,  with  an 
almost  endless  succession  of  wa- 
ter-falls, formed  by  the  primary 
streams  which    drain   the   middle 


478  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

portion  of  the  northern  slope  of  the  water-shed  between  Chesapeake  Bay  and  the  gulf 
of  the  St.  Lawrence,  their  first  point  of  rendezvous  being  Cayuga  Lake.  In  summer, 
the  ravines  are  frequented  by  the  residents  of  near  towns,  and  by  visitors  whose  numbers 
increase  year  by  year,  as  the  fame  of  the  wild,  cool  retreats  spreads  abroad.  An  after- 
tea  walk  takes  the  visitor  to  Ithaca  from  crowded  streets  into  the  most  beautiful  of 
Nature's  sanctuaries.  In  winter,  also,  the  ravines  are  visited,  for  the  rare  spectacle  in 
ice-work  which  forms  about  the  cataracts. 

The  most  northerly  of  those  ravines  which  pass  through  the  city  is  Fall  Creek,  in 
which,  within  a  mile,  there  are  eight  falls,  all  of  them  exceedingly  fine.  The  walls  of 
the  chasm  are  abrupt  and  high,  fringed  with  a  dusky  growth  of  forest-trees.  A  pathway 
was  worked  through  it  some  time  ago,  and  its  sombre  depths  and  reverberating  waters 
are  now  accessible  to  all  who  have  the  courage  and  endurance  necessary  to  follow  the 
rugged  way.  Four  of  the  falls  range  from  sixty  to  thirty  feet  in  height,  while  a  fifth, 
Ithaca  Fall,  attains  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet.  In  the  latter  the  foaming  torrent  leaps 
grandly  between  the  fractured  rock.  Several  times  its  headway  is  broken  by  projections, 
and  narrow  courses  lead  threads  of  the  silvery  water  from  the  main  channel  into  the 
foliage  that  closes  around.  Not  far  from  here  we  also  find  the  Triple  Fall,  which  is,  to 
our  mind,  the  most  beautiful  of  all.  It  should  be  named  Bridal -Veil  Fall.  The  water 
pours  over  the  rock  in  threads,  as  in  a  veil  of  gauze,  and  is  not  woven  into  a  mass,  as 
in  the  Ithaca  Fall.  But  the  people  who  had  in  charge  the  nomenclature  of  this  region 
have  avoided  romance,  and  named  the  places  in  a  matter-of-fact  fashion.  They  have  called 
Triple  Fall  thus  because  the  stream  leaps  thrice  before  it  ripples  forward  again  on  the 
level — first  over  one  rock,  bubbling  on  a  ledge  a  while  before  it  descends  to  the  next, 
and  then  taking  the  grandest  leap  of  all. 

Before  going  farther,  it  is  worth  our  while  to  examine  some  curious  formations  in 
the  vicinity,  which  somewhat  remind  us  of  the  eroded  sandstones  of  Monument  Park, 
Colorado.  Here  is  Tower  Rock,  a  perfect  columnar  formation,  about  thirty-six  feet 
high,  with  a  sort  of  groove  across  the  top.  The  water  of  the  lake  stretches  out 
smoothly  from  its  foot,  and  the  banks  around  are  rocky  and  jagged,  hidden  in  part  by 
the  abundant  foliage.  A  still  more  extraordinary  monument  of  Nature's  inexhaustible 
whims  is  found  in  Castle  Rock,  which  has  a  certain  regularity  of  form,  despite  its  un- 
usual character.  It  consists  of  a  massive  wall,  with  a  magnificent,  arched  door-way.  One 
of  its  peculiarities  is  that  the  surface  is  torn  and  fractured,  and  in  the  deep  seams  formed 
some  trees  and  shrubs  are  living  a  precarious  existence.  In  the  arch  of  the  door-way, 
for  instance,  there  is  a  deep  slit,  whence  spring  two  sturdy  trees,  their  slender  trunks 
appearing  bleak  and  lonely  in  their  exposed  situation. 

About  a  mile  and  a  half  south  of  Fall  Creek  is  Cascadilla  Creek,  smaller  than  the 
former,  but  more  delicate  and  harmonious  in  its  scenery.  Between  the  two  ravines,  its 
chimes    mingling   with    their    babble,  the    university  is    situated,  on  a  fair  expanse,  nearly 


Ci-ttt?     V.^(L, 


CAYUGA     LAKE     SCENERY. 


48o  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

four  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  lake.  The  principal  buildings  are  ranged  on  the 
summit  of  a  hill,  which  slopes  gently,  and  rises  again  in  richly-scented  fields  of  clover 
and  wild-flowers.  The  outlook  is  beautiful  beyond  description.  Nearest  is  the  pretty 
town,  with  its  regular  streets  and  white  houses ;  then,  the  luxuriant  valley ;  and,  beyond 
that,  twenty  miles  of  the  glistening  lake  are  seen,  bounded  by  verdure-clad  banks  and 
lofty  cliffs.  One  of  the  buildings,  Cascadilla  Hall,  is  close  to  two  of  the  most  beautiful 
falls  on  that  stream ;  an  excellent  road,  built  by  the  toil  of  self-educating  students,  crosses 
the  gorge  by  a  picturesque  bridge,  seventy  feet  above  the  stream,  afterward  winding 
through  a  romantic  grove,  and  affording  many  fine  views  of  the  lake  and  the  valley. 

Six  miles  from  the  city,  in  a  southwesterly  direction,  is  Enfield  Falls,  a  spot  of 
great  interest  on  account  of  the  great  depth  which  a  stream,  of  moderate  dimensions,  has 
furrowed  into  the  earth.  The  water  reaches  the  main  fall  through  a  narrow  canon,  a 
hundred  feet  deep,  and  then  tumbles  down,  almost  perpendicularly,  a  hundred  and  eighty 
feet,  into  a  chasm,  whose  walls  rise  three  hundred  feet  on  each  side.  Thence  the  stream 
reaches  the  valley  of  the  main  inlet  to  the  lake  through  a  wild,  broken,  wooded  course, 
to  explore  which  is  a  task  suited  only  to  those  who  have  strong  nerves  and  limbs.  The 
main  fall  has  the  same  thread-like  appearance  as  Triple  Fall,  and,  like  that,  it  is  broken 
several  times  in  its  downward  course.  The  torrent  leaps  six  times  over  the  protruding 
rock  before  it  reaches  the  foot,  and  proceeds  on  its  way  in  comparative  calm.  As  we 
stand  on  a  rock  in  the  eddying  pool  below,  and  glance  upward  through  the  murky 
chasm,  with  its  sheer  ivalls  and  sentinel  evergreens,  the  scene  is  impressive  in  the 
extreme,  and  much  more  sombre  than  other  parts  of  the  neighborhood.  The  stream  in 
the  main  fall  of  Buttermilk  Ravine  also  issues  from  a  deep  channel,  with  jutting  and 
somewhat  steep  walls.  In  this  ravine  there  is  another  of  those  fanciful  stone  monu- 
ments which  we  have  referred  to. 

But  the  most  noted  and  perhaps  the  most  impressive  of  all  the  water-falls  about 
the  head  of  Cayuga  Lake  is  the  Taghanic,  situated  about  ten  miles  northwest  from  the 
town,  and  about  one  mile  up  from  the  west  shore.  It  is  more  than  fifty  feet  higher 
than  Niagara,  and  is  considered  as  grand  as  the  Staubbach  of  Switzerland,  The  most 
interesting  features  are  the  very  deep  ravine,  the  extraordinary  height  of  the  cataract,  its 
sharply-defined  outlines,  and  the  magnificent  view  of  the  lake  and  the  surrounding  coun- 
try that  may  be  obtained  in  its  vicinity.  The  water  breaks  over  a  clean-cut  table-rock, 
and  falls  perpendicularly  two  hundred  and  fifteen  feet.  Except  in  flood-time,  the  veil  of 
water  breaks,  and  reaches  the  bottom  in  mist  and  sheets  of  spray.  The  rugged  cliffs 
through  which  the  stream  rolls  before  it  makes  its  plunge  are  about  two  hundred  feet  in 
depth,  and  form  a  triangle  at  the  brink  of  the  fall.  From  the  foot  a  strong  wind  rushes 
down  the  ravine,  the  walls  of  which  are  here  nearly  four  hundred  feet  high,  and  as  cleanly 
cut  as  though  laid  by  the  hands  of  a  mason.  This  ravine  is  reached  by  a  series  of  stair- 
ways, hewn  in  the  rock,  and  by  rugged  pathways. 


VICINITY     OF     ITHACA. 


132 


THE    ROCKY    MOUNTAINS. 


WITH       ILLUSTRATIONS      BY      THOMAS      MORAN 


T  N  a  general  and  some- 
^  what  indistinct  way, 
we  may  all  claim  to  know 
something  about  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  and  we  all  re- 
member the  reverence  and 
awe  their  name  inspired  in 
our  school -days;  but  our 
mature  knowledge  of  them 
is  neither  exact  nor  ex- 
tensive. Perhaps  we  have 
heard  of  Pike's  Peak, 
Gray's  Peak,  and  Long's 
Peak ;  but  we  are  hazy  as 
to  their  altitudes  and  char- 
acteristics, and  could  much 
more  easily  answer  ques- 
tions about  the  Alps,  the 
Andes,    or   the    Himalayas, 


Tower    Rock,    Garden    of   the    Gods. 


484  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

than  about  the  magnificent  chain  that  embraces  an  area  of  sixty  thousand  square  miles 
in  Colorado  alone,  and  nurtures  the  streams  that  pour  their  volume  into  the  greatest  and 
most  widely  separate  oceans.  We  may  have  crossed  the  continent  in  the  iron  pathway 
of  the  Union  Pacific  over  and  over  again,  and  not  seen  to  advantage  one  of  the  peaks 
that  cluster  and  soar  to  almost  incomparable  elevations — minor  hills  hiding  them  from 
the  travellers  in  the  cars  ;  and  we  may  be  inclined  to  think  less  of  the  main  range  than 
of  the  Sierra  Nevadas,  because  the  railway  has  shown  us  the  greatest  beauties  of  the 
latter.  But  there  is  not  a  false  pretence  about  them  ;  no  writer  has  exaggerated  in 
extolling  their  grandeur,  nor  even  adequately  described  it. 

The  chain  is  a  continuation  northward  of  the  Cordilleras  of  Central  America  and 
Mexico.  From  Mexico  it  continues  through  the  States  and  Territories  lying  between 
the  Pacific  and  the  head-waters  of  the  streams  that  flow  into  the  Mississippi,  spreading 
over  an  area  of  one  thousand  miles  from  east  to  west.  Still  inclining  northward,  and 
still  broken  into  several  ranges,  it  passes  into  the  British  possessions  to  the  north,  the 
eastern  range  reaching  the  Arctic  Ocean  in  about  latitude  70°  north,  and  the  western 
passing  near  the  coast,  and  ending  near  Prince  William's  Sound,  where  Mount  St.  Elias, 
in  latitude  60°,  stands  upon  the  borders  of  the  Pacific,  at  the  height  of  seventeen  thou- 
sand eight  hundred  feet  above  the  sea-level. 

We  do  not  Hke  the  word  "  Backbone "  applied  to  the  mountains.  Let  us  rather 
call  them  the  Snow-Divide  of  the  continent,  or,  as  the  main  range  is  sometimes 
named,  the  Mother-Sierras.  Occasionally,  too,  they  are  called  the  Alps  of  America  by 
one  of  those  absurd  whims  of  literary  nomenclature  that  insist  upon  calling  New 
Orleans  the  Paris  of  America,  Saratoga  the  Wiesbaden  of  America,  and  Lake  George 
the  Windermere  of  America,  just  as  though  we  had  nothing  distinctly  our  own,  and 
Nature  had  simply  duplicated  her  handiwork  across  the  seas  in  creating  the  present  United 
States.  The  Rocky  Mountains  are  not  like  the  Alps,  and  in  some  things  they  surpass 
them.  From  the  summit  of  Mount  Lincoln,  near  Fairplay,  Colorado,  on  a  clear  day, 
such  a  view  is  obtained  as  you  cannot  find  on  the  highest  crests  of  the  Swiss  moun- 
tains. In  the  rear,  and  in  the  front,  the  peaks  ascend  so  thickly  that  Nature  seems  to 
have  here  striven  to  build  a  dividing  wall  across  the  universe.  There  are  one  hundred 
and  thirty  of  them  not  less  than  thirteen  thousand  feet  high,  or  within  less  than  three 
thousand  feet  of  Mont  Blanc ;  and  at  least  fifty  over  fourteen  thousand  feet  high. 
Almost  below  the  dome  on  which  we  stand,  we  can  see  a  low  ridge  across  a  valley, 
separating  the  river  Platte,  leading  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  the  Blue  River,  leading 
to  the  Gulf  of  California.  On  one  side  are  the  famous  Gray's  and  Evans's  Peaks,  scarcely 
noticeable  among  a  host  of  equals ;  Long's  Peak  is  almost  hidden  by  the  narrow  ridge ; 
Pike's  is  very  distinct  and  striking.  Professor  Whitney  has  very  truly  said,  and  we  have 
repeated,  that  no  such  view  as  this  is  to  be  obtained  in  Switzerland,  either  for  reach 
or  the  magnificence   of  the    included   heights.      Only   in    the   Andes   or    Himalayas    might 


^..S-,*5- 


^^M' 

!---       ,^«- 


r 


»    V  * 


BO>A^LDER     CANON. 


486 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


we  see  its  equal.  But  it  is  also  true  that  one  misses  the  beauty  of  the  pure  Alpine 
mountains,  with  the  glaciers  streaming  down  their  sides.  The  snow  lies  abundantly  in 
lines,  and  banks,  and  masses  ;    yet  it  covers  nothing. 

Even  among  eminent    scientific    men    there    has    been    a    dense    ignorance   about   the 
Rocky  Mountains,  and  especially  about    the    heights   of  the    several    peaks.      Until   1873, 


Frozen    Lake,    Foot    of  James's    Peak. 


only  small  areas  of  our  vast  Territories  had  been  surveyed  and  accurately  mapped.  The 
greater  space  had  been  unnoticed,  and  uncared  for.  But  in  that  year  a  geological  and 
geographical  survey  of  Colorado  was  made,  under  the  able  direction  of  Dr.  F.  V.  Hayden ; 
and  the  results  have  exceeded  all  expectations.  The  position  of  every  leading  peak  in 
thirty  thousand  square  miles  was  fixed  last  summer,  including  the  whole  region  between 
parallels  38°  and  40°  20'  north,  and  between  the  meridians   104°  30'  and    107°  west.     The 


THE    ROCKY   MOUNTAINS. 


487 


ground  was  divided  into  three  districts,  the  northern  district  including  the  Middle  Park, 
the  middle  district  including  the  South  Park,  and  the  southern  district  the  San-Luis 
Park.  In  these  three  districts  the  range  reveals  itself  as  one  of  the  grandest  in  the 
world,  reaching  its  greatest  elevations,  and   comprising   one    of  the  most   interesting  areas 


Gray's    Peak. 


on  the  continent.  As  unscientific  persons,  we  owe  Professor  Hay  den  a  debt  of  gratitude 
for  reassuring  us  that  the  Rocky  Mountains  are  all  our  forefathers  thought  them,  and 
not  mythical  in  their  splendors.  How  much  more  the  savants  owe  him,  we  will  not 
venture  to  say.  We  ought  to  add,  however,  that  he  was  singularly  fortunate  in  unearth- 
mg,  so   to  speak,  the  most  representative   scenery,  as   the    photographs    made    attest;   and 


488  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

present    or    prospective    travellers    cannot    do    better   than    follow  in   the   footsteps  of  his 
expedition,  as  we  mean  to  do  in  this  article. 

Early  in  May  we  are  far  north,  with  a  detachment  of  the  Hayden  expedition,  en- 
camped in  the  Estes  Park,  or  Valley.  Park,  by-the-way,  is  used  in  these  regions  as  a 
sort  of  variation  on  the  sweeter-sounding  word.  The  night  is  deepening  as  we  pitch 
our  tents.  We  are  at  the  base  of  Long's  Peak  —  about  half-way  between  Denver 
City  and  the  boundary-line  of  Wyoming  —  and  can  only  dimly  see  its  clear-cut  out- 
line and  graceful  crests,  as  the  last  hues  of  sunset  fade  and  depart.  Supper  con- 
soles us  after  our  long  day's  march  ;  we  retire  to  our  tents,  but  are  not  so  exhausted 
that  we  cannot  make  merry.  In  this  lonely  little  valley,  with  awful  chasms  and  hills 
around,  in  a  wilderness  of  glacier  creation,  scantily  robed  with  dusky  pine  and  hemlock, 
the  hearty  voice  of  our  expedition  breaks  many  slumbering  echoes  in  the  chilly  spring 
night.  A  void  is  filled.  A  man  on  the  heights,  looking  into  the  valley,  would  be  con- 
scious of  a  change  in  the  sentiment  of  the  scene.  The  presence  of  humanity  infuses  itself 
into  the  inanimate.  It  is  so  all  through  the  region.  Alone,  we  survey  the  magnificent 
reaches  of  mountain,  hill-side,  and  plain,  with  a  subdued  spirit,  as  on  the  brink  of  a 
grave.  Our  sympathies  find  vent,  but  not  in  hysterical  adulation.  Our  admiration  and 
wonder  are  mingled  with  a  degree  of  awe  that  restrains  expression.  It  would  be  much 
more  easy  to  go  into  ecstasies  over  the  home-like  view  from  the  summit  of  Mount 
Washington  than  over  peaks  that  are  more  than  twice  as  high,  and  incomparably  grander. 
There  are  brightness  and  life,  smooth  pastures  and  pretty  houses,  on  the  New-England 
mountain.  Out  here  there  are  waste,  ruggedness,  and  sombre  colors.  The  heart  of  man 
is  not  felt ;  we  gaze  at  the  varied  forms,  all  of  them  massive,  most  of  them  beautiful, 
feeling  ourselves  in  a  strange  world.  The  shabby  hut  of  the  squatter,  and  straggling 
mining-camp,  deep  set  in  a  ravine,  are  an  inexpressible  relief;  and  so  our  white  tents, 
erected  on  the  fertile  acres  of  the  Estes  Park,  throw  a  gleam  of  warmth  among  the 
snowy  slopes,  and  impart  to  the  scene  that  something  without  which  the  noblest  country 
appears  dreary,  and  awakens  whatever  latent  grief  there  is  in  our  nature. 

Betimes  in  the  morning  we  are  astir,  and  the  full  glory  of  the  view  bursts  upon  us. 
The  peak  is  the  most  prominent  in  the  front  range,  soaring  higher  than  its  brothers 
around ;  and  we  have  seen  it  as  we  approached  from  the  plains.  It  is  yet  too  early  in 
the  season  for  us  to  attempt  the  ascent ;  the  snow  lies  more  than  half-way  down ;  but 
from  this  little  valley,  where  our  tents  are  pitched,  we  have  one  of  the  finest  views  pos- 
sible. The  slopes  are  gentle  and  almost  unbroken  for  a  considerable  distance  ;  but, 
reaching  higher,  they  terminate  in  sharp,  serrated  lines,  edged  with  a  ribbon  of  silver 
light.  The  snow  is  not  distributed  evenly.  In  some  places  it  lies  thick,  and  others  are 
only  partly  covered  by  streaky,  map-like  patches,  revealing  the  heavy  color  of  the  ground 
and  rock  beneath.  A  range  of  foot-hills  of  clumsy  contour  leads  the  way  to  the  peaks 
which  mount  behind  them.     The  park  is  a  lovely  spot,  sheltered,  fertile,  and  wooded.     It 


< 


183 


490  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

is  an  excellent  pasture  for  large  herds  of  cattle,  and  is  used  for  that  purpose.  A  few 
families  are  also  settled  here  ;  and,  as  the  valley  is  the  only  practicable  route  for  ascend- 
ing the  peak,  it  is  destined,  no  doubt,  to  become  a  stopping-place  for  future  tourists.  It 
is  seven  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty-eight  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and 
six  thousand  three  hundred  feet  below  Long's  Peak,  which  is  said  to  be  about  fourteen 
thousand  and  eighty-eight  feet  high.  The  peak  is  composed  of  primitive  rock,  twisted 
and  torn  into  some  of  the  grandest  canons  irt  this  famed  country  of  canons.  While  we 
remain  here,  we  are  constantly  afoot.  The  naturalists  of  the  expedition  are  overjoyed  at 
their  good  fortune,  and  the  photographers  are  alert  to  catch  all  they  can  while  the  light 
lasts.  The  air  is  crisp,  joyous,  balsamic.  Ah  !  that  we  might  never  be  left  alone  to  hear 
the  secret  voice  and  the  dread  revelations  of  these  magnificent  spaces  !  But  it  follows 
us,  and  oppresses  us ;  and  we  are  never  safe  from  its  importunities  without  a  mirthful, 
unimpressionable  companion.  It  is  a  terrible  skeleton  in  the  closet  of  the  mountain,  and 
it  comes  forth  to  fill  us  with  dismay  and  grief 

Soon  we  are  on  the  march  again,  tramping  southward  through  stilly  valleys,  climbing 
monstrous  bowlders,  fording  snow-fed  streams,  mounting  perilous  heights,  descending  awful 
chasms.  Everlasting  grandeur !  everlasting  hills  !  Then,  from  canons  almost  as  great,  we 
enter  the  Bowlder  Canon,  cut  deep  in  the  metamorphic  rocks  of  foot-hills  for  seventeen 
miles,  with  walls  of  solid  rock  that  rise  precipitously  to  a  height  of  three  thousand  feet  in 
many  places.  A  bubbling  stream  rushes  down  the  centre,  broken  in  its  course  by  clumsy- 
looking  rocks,  and  the  fallen  limbs  of  trees  that  have  been  wrenched  from  the  sparse  soil 
and  moss  in  the  crevices.  The  water  is  discolored  and  thick.  At  the  head  of  the  canon 
is  a  mining-settlement,  and  we  meet  several  horsemen  traversing  a  narrow  road  that 
clings  to  the  walls — now  on  one  side,  and  then,  leaping  the  stream,  to  the  other.  The 
pines,  that  find  no  haunt  too  drear,  and  no  soil  too  sterile,  have  striven  to  hide  the 
nakedness  of  the  rocks  ;  but  many  a  branch  is  withered  and  decayed,  and  those  still  living 
are  dwarfed  and  sombre.  Bowlder  City,  at  the  mouth  of  the  canon,  has  a  population  of 
about  fifteen  hundred,  and  is  the  centre  of  the  most  abundant  and  extensively  developed 
gold,  silver,  and  coal  mining  districts  in  the  Territory.  Within  a  short  distance  from  it 
are  Central  City,  Black  Hawk,  and  Georgetown. 

James's  Peak  comes  next  in  our  route,  and  at  its  foot  we  see  one  of  the  pretty 
frozen  lakes  that  are  scattered  all  over  the  range.  It  is  a  picturesque  and  weird  yet  ten- 
derly sentimental  scene.  Mr.  Moran  has  caught  its  spirit  admirably,  and  his  picture  gives 
a  fair  idea  of  its  beauty.  The  surface  is  as  smooth  as  a  mirror,  and  reflects  the  funereal 
foliage  and  snowy  robes  of  the  slopes  as  clearly.  It  is  as  chaste  as  morning,  and  we 
can  think  of  ice-goblins  chasing  underneath  the  folds  of  virgin  snow  that  the  pale  moon- 
light famtly  touches  and  bespangles.  The  white  dress  of  the  mountain  hereabout  is  un- 
changed the  year  round,  and  only  yields  tribute  to  the  summer  heat  in  thousands  of  little 
brooks,  that  gather  together  in  the  greater  streams.     The  lakes  themselves  are  small  basins. 


492  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

not  more  than  two  or  three  acres  in  extent,  and  are  ice-locked  and  snow-bound  until  the 
summer  is  far  advanced. 

You  shall  not  be  wearied  by  a  detailed  story  of  our  roiite,  or  of  the  routine  of  our 
camp.  We  are  on  the  wing  pretty  constantly,  the  photographers  and  naturalists  working 
with  exemplary  zeal  in  adding  to  their  collections.  We  are  never  away  from  the  moun- 
tains, and  never  at  a  spot  devoid  of  beauty.  In  the  morning  we  climb  a  hill,  and  in 
the  evening  march  down  it.  Anon  we  are  under  the  looming  shadows  of  a  steep  pass 
or  ravine,  and  then  our  eyes  are  refreshed  in  a  green  valley — not  such  a  valley  as  rests 
at  the  foot  of  Alpine  hills,  but  one  that  has  not  been  transformed  by  the  cultivator — a 
waste  to  Eastern  eyes,  but  a  paradise,  compared  with  the  more  rugged  forms  around, 
We  are  not  sure  that  "  beauty  unadorned  is  adorned  the  most "  in  this  instance.  A  few 
hedge-rows  here  and  there,  a  white  farm-house  on  yonder  knoll,  a  level  patch  of  moist, 
brown  earth  freshly  ploughed,  and  a  leafy,  loaded  orchard,  might  change  the  sentiment 
of  the  thing,  but  would  not  make  it  less  beautiful. 

We  encounter  civilization,  modified  by  the  conditions  of  frontier  life,  in  the  happily- 
situated  little  city  of  Georgetown,  which  is  in  a  direct  line  running  westward  from  Denver 
City,  the  starting-point  of  tourist  mountaineers.  A  great  many  of  you  have  been  there, 
using  its  hotel  as  a  base  of  operations  in  moimtaineering.  It  is  locked  in  a  valley  sur- 
rounded by  far-reaching  granite  hills,  with  the  silver  ribbon  of  Clear  Creek  flashing  its 
way  through,  and  forests  of  evergreens  soaring  to  the  ridges.  A  previous  traveller  has  well 
said  that  Europe  has  no  place  to  compare  with  it.  It  is  five  thousand  feet  higher  than 
the  glacier-walled  vale  of  the  Chamouni,  and  even  higher  than  the  snow-girt  hospice 
of  Saint-Bernard.  Roundabout  are  wonderful  "bits"  of  Nature,  and,  from  the  valley 
itself,  we  make  the  ascent  of  Gray's  Peak,  the  mountain  that,  of  all  others  in  the  land, 
we  have  heard  the  most  We  toil  up  a  winding  road,  meeting  plenty  of  company,  of  a 
rough  sort,  on  the  way.  There  are  many  silver-mines  in  the  neighborhood,  and  we  also 
meet  heavily-laden  wagons,  full  of  ore,  driven  by  labor-stained  men.  The  air  grows 
clearer  and  thinner ;  we  leave  behind  the  forests  of  aspen,  and  are  now  among  the  pines, 
silver-firs,  and  spruces.  At  last  we  enter  a  valley,  and  see  afar  a  majestic  peak,  which 
we  imagine  is  oar  destination.  We  are  wrong.  Ours  is  yet  higher,  so  we  ride  on,  the 
horses  panting  and  the  men  restless.  The  forest  still  grows  thinner ;  the  trees  smaller. 
Below  us  are  the  successive  valleys  through  which  we  have  come,  and  above  us  the 
snowy  Sierras,  tinted  with  the  colors  of  the  sky.  Twelve  thousand  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  sea  we  reach  the  Stevens  silver-mine,  the  highest  point  in  Colorado  where  mining 
is  carried  on,  and  then  we  pass  the  limit  of  tree-life,  where  only  dwarfed  forms  of  Alpine 
or  arctic  vegetation  exist.  A  flock  of  white  partridges  flutter  away  at  our  coming,  and 
two  or  three  conies  snarl  at  us  from  their  nests  underneath  the  rocks.  Higher  yet  ! 
Breathless  and  fatigued,  we  urge  our  poor  beasts  on  in  the  narrow,  almost  hidden  trail, 
and  are  rewarded  in  due  time  by  a  safe  arrival  at  our  goal. 


ERODED     SANDSTONES,     MONUMENT     PARK. 


494  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

Foremost  in  the  view  are  the  twin  peaks,  Gray's  and  Torrey's ;  but,  in  a  vast  area 
that  seems  limitless,  there  are  successive  rows  of  pinnacles,  some  of  them  entirely 
wrapped  in  everlasting  snow,  others  patched  with  it,  some  abrupt  and  pointed,  others  reach- 
ing their  climax  by  soft  curves  and  gradations  that  are  almost  imperceptible.  We  are  on 
the  crest  of  a  continent — on  the  brink  of  that  New  World  which  Agassiz  has  told  us 
is  the  Old.  The  man  who  could  resist  the  emotion  called  forth  by  the  scene,  is  not 
among  our  readers,  we  sincerely  hope.  There  is  a  sort  of  enclosure  some  feet  beneath 
the  very  summit  of  Gray's  Peak,  or,  to  speak  more  exactly,  a  valley  surrounded  by  walls 
of  snow,  dotted  by  occasional  bowlders,  and  sparsely  covered  with  dwarfed  vegetation. 
Here  we  encamp  and  light  our  fires,  and  smoke  our  pipes,  while  our  minds  are  in  a 
trance  over  the  superb  reach  before  us. 

Not  very  many  years  ago  it  was  a  common  thing  to  find  a  deserted  wagon  on  the 
plains,  with  some  skeleton  men  and  two  skeleton  horses  not  far  off.  A  story  is  told  that, 
in  one  case,  the  tarpaulin  was  inscribed  with  the  words  "  Pike's  Peak  or  Bust."  Pike's 
Peak  was  then  an  El  Dorado  to  the  immigrants,  who,  in  adventurously  seeking  it,  often 
fell  victims  on  the  gore-stained  ground  of  the  Sioux  Indians.  Foremost  in  the  range,  it 
was  the  most  visible  from  the  plains,  and  was  as  a  star  or  beacon  to  the  travellers 
approaching  the  mountains  from  the  east.  Thither  we  are  now  bound,  destined  to 
call,  on  the  way,  at  the  Chicago  Lakes,  Monument  Park,  and  the  Garden  of  the 
Gods.  Chicago  Lakes  lie  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Rosalie,  still  farther  south,  and  are  the 
source  of  Chicago  Creek.  They  are  high  upon  the  mountain,  at  the  verge  of  the  tim- 
ber-line, and  that  shown  in  Mr.  Moran's  picture  has  an  elevation  of  nearly  twelve  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  Mount  Rosalie,  ridged  with  snow,  and  very  rugged 
in  appearance,  terminates  two  thousand  two  hundred  feet  higher.  Another  lake,  as 
smooth  and  lovely  as  this,  and  of  about  the  same  size,  is  found  near  by,  and  twelve 
more  are  scattered,  like  so  many  patches  of  silver,  in  the  vicinity.  The  water  comes 
from  the  snow,  and  is  cool  and  refreshing  on  the  hottest  summer  days.  Trout  are  abun- 
dant in  the  streams,  and  allure  many  travellers  over  a  terribly  bad  road  from  George- 
town. Monument  Park  is  probably  more  familiar  to  you  than  other  points  in  our  route. 
It  is  filled  with  fantastic  groups  of  eroded  sandstone,  perhaps  the  most  unique  in  the 
Western  country,  where  there  are  so  many  evidences  of  Nature's  curious  whims.  If  one 
should  imagine  a  great  number  of  gigantic  sugar-loaves,  quite  irregular  in  shape,  but  all 
showing  the  tapering  form,  varying  in  height  from  six  feet  to  nearly  fifty,  with  each  loaf 
capped  by  a  dark,  flat  stone,  not  unlike  in  shape  to  a  college-student's  hat,  he  would 
have  a  very  clear  idea  of  the  columns  in  Monument  Park.  They  are  for  the  most  part 
ranged  along  the  low  hills  on  each  side  of  the  park,  which  is  probably  a  mile  wide,  but 
here  and  there  one  stands  out  in  the  open  plain.  On  one  or  two  little  knolls,  apart 
from  the  hills,  numbers  of  these  columns  are  grouped,  producing  the  exact  effect  of 
cemeteries  with  their  white-marble  columns.     The  stone  is  very  light  in  color. 


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496 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


a, 
a, 


Once  more  we  are  on  our 
way,  and  still  in  the  mountains. 
We  linger  a  w^hile  in  the  Garden 
of  the  Gods,  which  is  five  miles 
northwest  of  Colorado  Springs,  as 
you  will  see  by  referring  to  a  map, 
among  the  magnificent  forms  that 
in  some  places  resemble  those  we 
have  already  seen  in  Monument 
Park.  There  are  some  prominent 
cliffs,  too  ;  but  they  are  not  so  in- 
teresting as  others  that  we  have 
seen,  and  are  simply  horizontal 
strata,  thrown  by  some  convulsion 
into  a  perpendicular  position.  At 
the  "gateway"  we  are  between  two 
precipitous  walls  of  sandstone,  two 
hundred  feet  apart,  and  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  high.  Stretch- 
ing afar  is  a  gently  -  sloping  foot- 
hill, and,  beyond  that,  in  the  dis- 
tance, we  have  a  glimpse  of  the 
faint  snow  -  line  of  Pike's  '  Peak. 
The  scene  is  strangely  impressive. 
The  walls  form  almost  an  amphi- 
theatre, enclosing  a  patch  of  level 
earth.  In  the  foreground  there  is 
an  embankment  consisting  of  ap- 
parently detached  rocks,  some  of 
them  distorted  into  mushroom- 
shape,  and  others  secreting  shallow 
pools  of  water  in  their  darkling 
hollows.  The  foliage  is  scarce  and 
deciduous ;  gloomily  pathetic.  A 
rock  rises  midway  between  the 
walls  at  the  gateway,  and  else- 
where in  the  garden  there  are 
monumental  forms  that  remind  us 
of   the    valley  of    the    Yellowstone. 


THE   ROCKY   MOUNTAINS. 


497 


Teocalli  Mountain. 


Pike's  Peak,  seen  from  the  walls,  is  about  ten  miles  off.  It  forms,  with  its  spurs,  the 
southeastern  boundary  of  the  South  Park.  It  offers  no  great  difficulties  in  the  ascent, 
and  a  good  trail  for  horses  has  been  made  to  the  summit,  where  an  "  Old  Probabilities  " 
has  stationed  an  officer  to  forecast  the  coming  storms. 

Now  we  bear  away  to  Fairplay,  where  we  join  the  principal  division  of  the  expedi- 
tion, and  thence  we  visit  together  Mount  Lincoln,  Western  Pass,  the  Twin  Lakes,  and 
other  points  in  the  valley  of  the  Arkansas  ;  cross  the  National  or  Mother  range  into 
the  Elk  Mountains  ;  proceed  up  the  Arkansas  and  beyond  its  head-waters  to  the  Mount 
of  the  Holy  Cross.  We  are  exhausting  our  space,  not  our  subject,  and  we  can  only 
describe  at  length  a  few  spots  in    the    magnificent    country  included  in  our  itinerary.      At 


134 


4q8  picturesque    AMERICA. 

the  beginning  we  spoke  about  Mount  Lincoln,  and  the  glorious  view  obtained  from  its 
summit.  When  named,  during  the  war,  this  peak  was  thought  to  be  eighteen  thousand 
feet  high,  but  more  recent  measurements  have  brought  it  down  to  about  fourteen  thou- 
sand feet — lower,  in  fact,  than  Pike's,  Gray's,  Long's,  Yale,  or  Harvard,  the  highest  of  which 
has  yet  to  be  determined.  But  its  summit  commands  points  in  a  region  of  country 
nearly  twenty-five  thousand  square  miles  in  extent,  embracing  the  grandest  natural  beau- 
ties, a  bewildering  reach  of  peaks,  valleys,  canons,  rivers,  and  lakes.  We  find,  too,  on 
Mount  Lincoln,  some  lovely  Alpine  flowers,  which  grow  in  profusion  even  on  the  very 
summit,  and  are  of  nearly  every  color  and  great  fragrance.  Professor  J.  D.  Whitney, 
who  accompanied  the  expedition,  picked  several  sweetly  -  smelling  bunches  of  delicate 
blue-bells  within  five  feet  of  the  dome  of  Mount  Lincoln.  These  tender  little  plants  are 
chilled  every  night  to  freezing,  and  draw  all  their  nourishment  from  the  freshly-melted 
snow. 

Heretofore  we  have  spoken  complainingly,  it  may  seem,  of  the  sombre  quality  of 
all  we  have  seen,  and  its  deficient  power  of  evoking  human  sympathy.  But  at  the 
Twin  Lakes  we  have  no  more  occasion  for  morbid  brooding,  but  a  chance  to  go  into 
healthy  raptures,  and  to  admire  some  tender,  almost  pastural  scenery.  The  course  of  the 
Arkansas  River  is  southward  hereabout,  touching  the  base  of  the  central  chain  of  the 
mountains.  So  it  continues  for  one  hundred  miles,  then  branching  eastward  toward  the 
Mississippi.  Li  the  lower  part  of  the  southward  course  the  valley  expands,  and  is  bor- 
dered on  the  east  by  an  irregular  mass  of  low,  broken  hill-ranges,  and  on  the  west  by  the 
central  range.  Twenty  miles  above  this  point  the  banks  are  closely  confined,  and  form 
a  very  picturesque  gorge  ;  still  further  above  they  again  expand,  and  here  are  nestled 
the  beautiful  Twin  Lakes.  The  larger  is  about  two  and  a  half  miles  long  and  a  mile  and 
a  half  wide  ;  the  smaller  about  half  that  size.  At  the  upper  end  they  are  girt  by  steep 
and  rugged  heights  ;  below  they  are  bounded  by  undulating  hills  of  gravel  and  bowl- 
ders. A  broad  stream  connects  the  two,  and  then  hurries  down  the  plain  to  join  and 
swell  the  Arkansas.  Our  illustration  does  not  exaggerate  the  chaste  beauty  of  the  upper 
lake,  the  smaller  of  the  two.  The  contour  of  the  surrounding  hills  is  marvellously 
varied  :  here  softly  curving,  and  yonder  soaring  to  an  abrupt  peak.  In  some  things  it 
transports  us  to  .the  western  Highlands  of  Scotland,  and,  as  with  their  waters,  its  depths 
are  swarming  with  the  most  delicately  flavored,  the  most  spirited  and  largest  trout. 
Sportsmen  come  here  in  considerable  numbers ;  and  not  the  least  charming  object  to  be 
met  on  the  banks  is  an  absorbed,  contemplative  man,  seated  on  some  glacier-thrown 
bowlder,  with  his  slender  rod  poised  and  bending  gracefully,  and  a  pretty  wicker  basket, 
half  hidden  in  the  moist  grass  at  his  side,  ready  for  the  gleaming  fish  that  flaunts  his 
gorgeous  colors  in  the  steadily-lapping  waters. 

We  advance  from  the  Twin  Lakes  into  the  very  heart  of  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
and  sojourn  in  a  quiet  little  valley  while  the  working-force  of  the  expedition  explores  the 


500 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


neighboring  country.     Two  summits  are  ascended  from  our  station,  one  of  them  a  round 
peak    of  granite,  full    fourteen    thousand   feet   above   the    level   of  the    sea,    and   only    to 

be  reached  by  assiduous  and  tiresome 
scrambling  over  fractured  rocks.  This 
we  name  La  Plata.  We  are  on  the 
grandest  uplift  on  the  continent,  Pro- 
fessor Whitney  believes.  The  range  is 
of  unswerving  direction,  running  north 
and  south  for  nearly  a  hundred  miles, 
and  is  broken  into  countless  peaks 
over  twelve  thousand  feet  high.  It  is 
penetrated  by  deep  ravines,  which  for- 
-  merly  sent  great  glaciers  into  the  val- 
ley ;  it  is  composed  of  granite  and 
eruptive  rocks.  The  northernmost  point 
is  the  Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross,  and 
that  we  shall  visit  soon.  Advancing 
again  through  magnificent  upland  mead- 
ows and  amphitheatres,  we  come  at 
last  to  Red-Mountain  Pass,  so  named 
from  a  curious  line  of  light  near  the 
summit,  marked  for  half  a  mile  with 
a  brilliant  crimson  stain,  verging  into 
yellow  from  the  oxidation  of  iron  in 
the  volcanic  material.  The  effect  of 
this,  as  may  be  imagined,  is  wonder- 
fully beautiful.  Thence  we  traverse  sev- 
eral ravines  in  the  shadow  of  the  im- 
posing granite  mountains,  enter  fresh 
valleys,  and  contemplate  fresh  wonders. 
The  ardent  geologists  of  the  expedi- 
tion, ever  alert,  discover  one  day  a 
ledge  of  limestone  containing  corals, 
and  soon  we  are  in  a  region  filled 
with  enormous  and  surprising  develop- 
ments of  that  material.  We  pitch  our 
tents  near  the  base  of  an  immense 
pyramid,  capped  with  layers  of  red  sandstone,  which  we  name  Teocalli,  from  the 
Aztec    word,    meaning    "  pyramid    of    sacrifice."       The    view    from    our    camp    is  —  we 


Elk-Lake   Cascade. 


MOUNTAIN     OF    THE     HOLY     CROSS. 


502  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

should  say  surpassing,  could  we  remember  or  decide  which  of  all  the  beauties  we  have  is 
the  grandest.  Two  hills  incline  toward  the  valley  where  we  are  stationed,  ultimately 
falling  into  each  other's  arms.  Between  their  shoulders  there  is  a  broad  gap,  and,  in  the 
rear,  the  majestic  form  of  the  Teocalli  reaches  to  heaven. 

In  the  distance  we  have  seen  two  mountains  which  are  temporarily  called  Snow- 
Mass  and  Black  Pyramid.  The  first  of  these  we  are  now  ascending.  It  is  a  terribly 
hard  road  to  travel.  The  slopes  consist  of  masses  of  immense  granitic  fragments,  the 
rock-bed  from  which  they  came  appearing  only  occasionally.  When  we  reach  the  crest, 
we  find  it  also  broken  and  cleft  in  masses  and  pillars.  Professor  Whitney  ingeniously 
reckons  that  an  industrious  man,  with  a  crow-bar,  could,  by  a  week's  industrious  exertion, 
reduce  the  height  of  the  mountain  one  or  two  hundred  feet.  Some  of  the  members  of 
the  expedition  amuse  themselves  by  the  experiment,  toppling  over  great  fragments, 
which  thunder  down  the  slopes,  and  furrow  the  wide  snow-fields  below.  It  is  this  snow- 
field  which  forms  the  characteristic  feature  of  the  mountain  as  seen  in  the  distance. 
There  is  about  a  square  mile  of  unbroken  white,  and,  lower  down  still,  a  lake  of  blue 
water.  A  little  to  the  northward  of  Snow-Mass,  the  range  rises  into  another  yet  greater 
mountain.  The  two  are  known  to  miners  as  "  The  Twins,"  although  they  are  not  at  all 
alike,  as  the  provisional  names  we  bestowed  upon  them  indicate.  After  mature  delibera- 
tion the  expedition  rechristen  them  the  White  House  and  the  Capitol,  under  which 
names  we  suppose  they  will  be  familiar  to  future  generations.  Not  a  great  distance 
from  here,  leading  down  the  mountain  from  Elk  Lake,  is  a  picturesque  cascade,  that 
finds  its  way  through  deep  gorges  and  canons  to  the  Rio  Grande. 

The  Mountain  of  the  Holy  Cross  is  next  reached.  This  is  the  most  celebrated 
mountain  in  the  region,  but  its  height,  which  has  been  over-estimated,  is  not  more  than 
fourteen  thousand  feet.  The  ascent  is  exceedingly  toilsome  even  for  inured  mountaineers, 
and  I  might  give  you  an  interesting  chapter  describing  the  difficulties  that  beset  us. 
There  is  a  very  beautiful  peculiarity  in  the  mountain,  as  its  name  shows.  The  principal 
peak  is  composed  of  gneiss,  and  the  cross  fractures  of  the  rock  on  the  eastern  slope 
have  made  two  great  fissures,  which  cut  into  one  another  at  right  angles,  and  hold  their 
snow  in  the  form  of  a  cross'  the  summer  long. 


THE  CANONS  OF  THE  COLORADO. 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS     BY     THOMAS    MORAN. 


N 


ONE  of  the  works  of  Nature 
on  the  American  Continent, 
where  many  things  are  done  by  her 
upon  a  scale  of  grandeur  elsewhere 
unknown,  approach  in  magnificence 
and  wonder  the  canons  of  the  Colo- 
rado. The  river-system  of  the  Colo- 
rado is,  in  extent  of  area  drained,  the 
second  or  third  in  the  United  States. 
The  drainage  of  the  Mississippi  is,  of 
course,  far  more  extensive,  and  the 
drainage  of  the  Columbia  is  nearly 
equal,  or  perhaps  a  little  greater.  It 
is  characteristic  of  the  Colorado  that  nearly  all  the 
streams  which  unite  to  form  it,  or  which  flow  into 
it,  are  confined  in  deep  and  narrow  gorges,  with 
walls  often  perpendicular.  Sometimes  the  walls  rise  directly  from 
the  water's  edge,  so  that  there  is  only  room  between  for  the  pas- 
sage of  the  stream.  In  other  places,  the  bottoms  of  the  gorges  widen 
out  into  valleys,  through  which  roads  may  pass  ;  and  sometimes  they  contain  small  tracts 
of  arable  land.  For  the  most  part,  the  walls  of  the  canons  of  the  Colorado-River  system 
are  not  above  a  few  hundred  feet  in  height  ;  and  yet,  there  are  more  than  a  thousand 
miles  of  canons  where  they  rise  ten  or  twelve  hundred  feet  in  perpendicular  cliffs.  The 
Grand  Canon,  which  Major  Powell  calls  "  the  most  profound  chasm  known  on  the 
globe,"  is,  for  a  distance  of  over  two  hundred  miles,  at  no  point  less  than  four  thousand 
feet  deep. 

The  Green  River,  which  is  familiar  to  every  person  who  has  passed  over  the  Union 
Pacific  Railroad,  is  one  of  the  principal  sources  of  the  Colorado.  The  first  successful 
attempt  to  explore  the  Grand  Canon  was  made  by  Major  J.  W.  Powell,  in  1869.  He 
reached  it  then  by  descending  the  Green  River  with  boats,  built  in  Chicago,  and  carried 
by  rail  to  Green-River  Station.  He  accomplished  the  voyage  of  nearly  a  thousand  miles 
in  three  months,  one  month  being  occupied  in  the  passage  of  the  Grand  Canon.  Father 
Escalante  had  seen  the  Colorado  in  1776,  and  the  map  which  he  constructed  shows 
clearly  the  point  at  which    he    crossed.     Fremont  and  Whipple  had  seen  the  canon  ;  and 


504  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

Ives,  in  his  expedition  of  1857  and  1858,  saw  the  Kanab,  one  of  its  largest  branches, 
which  he  mistook  for  the  Grand  Canon  itself.  But,  previous  to  Major  Powell's  voyage 
of  exploration,  the  course  of  a  great  part  of  the  river  was  as  little  known  as  the  sources 
of  the  Nile  ;  and  the  accounts  of  the  wonders  of  the  Grand  Canon  were  held  by  many 
to  be  rather  mythical,  and  greatly  exaggerated. 

The  Colorado  is  formed  by  the  junction  of  the  Grand  and  Green  Rivers  in  the 
eastern  part  of  Utah.  The  distance  from  Green-River  Station,  by  the  course  of  the 
river,  to  the  junction  of  the  two  streams,  is  four  hundred  fifty-eight  and  a  half  miles. 
The  canons  begin  very  soon  after  leaving  the  railroad,  and  in  the  series  named  are 
Flaming  Gorge,  Kingfisher,  and  Red  Canons,  Canon  of  Lodore,  Whirlpool  and  Yampa 
Canons,  Canon  of  Desolation,  Gray,  Labyrinth,  Stillwater,  Cataract,  Narrow,  Glen,  and 
Marble  Canons.  Each  has  some  peculiar  characteristic,  which,  in  most  instances,  is  indi- 
cated by  the  name.  There  is  generally  no  break  in  the  walls  between  the  different 
canons,  the  divisions  being  marked  by  remarkable  changes  in  their  geological  structure. 
The  canons  whose  names  above  precede  Cataract,  are  on  Green  River  before  it  joins  the 
waters  of  the  Grand. 

Labyrinth  is  one  of  the  lower  canons  of  the  Green  River.  It  is  a  wide  and  beauti- 
ful canon,  with  comparatively  low  walls,  but  perpendicular  and  impassable.  Indeed,  from 
Gunnison's  Crossing,  one  hundred  and  sixteen  miles  above  the  junction  of  the  Grand 
and  Green,  to  the  running  out  of  the  Grand  Canon,  a  distance  of  five  hundred  eighty- 
seven  and  a  half  miles,  there  are  only  two  places,  and  they  are  not  more  than  a  mile 
apart,  where  the  river  and  its  chasm  can  be  crossed.  At  one  point  in  Labyrinth  Canon, 
the  river  makes  a  long  bend,  in  the  bow  of  which  it  sweeps  around  a  huge  circular 
bittte,  whose  regular  and  perpendicular  walls  look  as  though  they  might  have  been  laid 
by  a  race  of  giant  craftsmen.  At  a  distance  the  pile  resembles  a  vast,  turret-shaped  for- 
tress, deserted  and  partly  broken  down.  This  point  in  the  river  is  called  Bonita  Bend, 
and  a  view  of  it  has  been  drawn  by  Mr.  Moran  from  photographs  taken  by  Major 
Powell's  party.  The  waters  in  this  canon  are  smooth  and  shoal,  and  afforded  the  ex- 
plorers, for  many  miles,  a  grateful  rest  from  the  toil  and  danger  of  shooting  rapids,  or 
making  wearisome  portages  of  the  boats. 

The  junction  of  the  Grand  and  Green  Rivers  brings  together  a  flood  of  waters 
about  equal  in  volume  to  the  flow  of  Niagara.  The  Grand  and  Green  meet  in  a  nar- 
row gorge  more  than  two  thousand  feet  deep  ;  and  at  this  point  the  canons  of  the 
Colorado  begin. 

The  first  is  called  Cataract  Canon.  It  is  about  forty  miles  long.  The  descent  of 
the  river  through  this  canon  is  very  great,  and  the  velocity  acquired  by  the  current  is 
sometimes  equal  to  the  speed  of  the  fastest  railroad-train.  Great  buttresses  of  the  walls 
stand  out  into  the  rushing  flood  at  frequent  intervals,  turning  the  rapid  current  into  boil- 
ing whirlpools,  which  were  encountered  by  the  adventurous  boatmen  with  great  peril  and 


135 


GLEN     CANOM. 


5o6 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


labor.  At  the  foot  of  Cataract  Canon,  the  walls  of  the  chasm  approach  each  other,  and, 
for  a  distance  of  seven  miles,  the  water  rushes  through  Narrow  Canon  at  the  rate  of 
forty  miles  an   hour. 

At  the  end  of  Narrow  Canon,  the  character  of  the  gorge  changes,  and,  from  that 
point  to  the  place  where  the  Paria  River  enters  the  Colorado,  a  distance  of  a  hundred 
and  forty  and  a  half  miles,  it  is  called  Glen  Canon.  At  the  mouth  of  the  Paria,  a  trail 
leads  down  the  cliffs  to  the  bottom  of  the  canon  on  both  sides,  and  animals  and  wagons 
can   be  taken  down  and  crossed  over  in   boats.     The   Indians  swim  across  on  loes. 

A  mile  above  the  Paria  is  the  Crossing  of  the  Fathers,  where  Father  Escalante  and 

his  hundred  priests  passed  across  the 
canon.  An  alcove  in  this  canon,  which 
the  artist  has  drawn,  illustrates  the 
general  character  of  the  walls,  and  the 
scenery  from  which  the  canon  takes 
its  name.  The  smooth  and  precipi- 
tous character  of  the  walls  of  Glen 
Canon  is  well  shown  in  the  illustra- 
tion. The  chasm  is  carved  in  homo- 
geneous red  sandstone,  and  in  some 
places,  for  a  thousand  feet  on  the  face 
of  the  rock,  there  is  scarce  a  check 
or  seam. 

The  most  beautiful  of  all  the  ca- 
nons begins  at  the  mouth  of  the  Pa- 
ria, and  extends  to  the  junction  of 
the  Little  Colorado,  or  Chiquito,  as  it 
is  called  by  the  Indians.  This  part 
of  the  gorge  is  named  Marble  Canon, 
and  is  sixty-five  and  a  half  miles  long. 
The  walls  are  of  limestone  or  marble, 
beautifully  carved  and  polished,  and 
the  forms  assumed  have   the    most  re- 


Buttresses  of  Marble  Canon. 


markable  resemblances  to  ruined  architecture.  The  colors  of  the  marble  are  various — 
pink,  brown,  gray,  white,  slate-color,  and  vermilion.  The  beautiful  forms,  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  the  grand  scale  on  which  they  are  constructed,  are  given  by  the  two  views 
in  this  caiion,  which  the  artist  has  drawn.  But  it  is  only  on  large  canvas,  and  by 
the  use  of  the  many  -  tinted  brush,  that  any  reproduction  can  be  made,  approaching 
truthfulness,  of  the  combination  of  the  grand  and  beautiful  exhibited  in  the  sculpturing, 
the  colors,  and  the  awful  depth,  of  Marble  Canon. 


MARBLE     CANON. 


5o8  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

The  Marble  Canon  runs  out  at  the  junction  of  the  Chiquito  and  Colorado,  at 
which  point  the  Grand  Canon  begins.  The  head  of  the  Grand  Canon  is  in  the  north- 
eastern part  of  Arizona,  and  it  runs  out  in  the  northwestern  part,  lying  wholly  within 
that  Territory.  Its  general  course  is  westerly,  but  it  makes  two  great  bends  to  the  south. 
It  is  two  hundred  and  seventeen  and  a  half  miles  long,  and  the  walls  vary  in  height  from 
four  thousand  to  six  thousand  two  hundred  and  thirty-three  feet.  It  is  cut  through  a 
series  of  levels  of  varying  altitudes,  the  chasm  being  deepest,  of  course,  where  it  passes 
through  the  highest.  There  are  in  the  canon  no  perpendicular  cliffs  more  than  three 
thousand  feet  in  height.  At  that  elevation  from  the  river,  the  sides  slope  back,  and 
rise  by  a  series  of  perpendicular  cliffs  and  benches  to  the  level  of  the  surrounding 
country.  In  many  places  it  is  possible  to  find  gorges  or  side-canons,  cutting  down 
through  the  upper  cliffs,  by  which  it  is  possible,  and  in  some  instances  easy,  to  approach 
to  the  edge  of  the  wall  which  rises  perpendicularly  from  the  river.  At  three  thousand 
feet  above  the  river,  the  chasm  is  often  but  a  few  hundred  feet  wide.  At  the  highest 
elevation  mentioned,  the  distance  across  is  generally  from  five  to  ten  miles. 

At  various  places  the  chasm  is  cleft  through  the  primal  granite  rock  to  the  depth 
of  twenty-eight  hundred  feet.  In  those  parts  of  the  canon,  which  are  many  miles  of 
its  whole  extent,  the  chasm  is  narrow,  the  walls  rugged,  broken,  and  precipitous,  and 
the  navigation  of  the  river  dangerous.  The  daring  voyagers  gave  profound  thanks,  as 
though  they  had  escaped  from  death,  whenever  they  passed  out  from  between  the 
walls  of  granite  into  waters  confined  by  lime  or  sandstone.  Mr.  Moran  has  drawn  a 
section  of  these  granite  walls,  showing  some  of  the  pinnacles  and  buttresses  which 
are  met  at  every  turn  of  the  river.  The  waters  rush  through  the  granite  canons  at 
terrific  speed.  Great  waves,  formed  by  the  irregular  sides  and  bottom,  threatened 
every  moment  to  engulf  the  boats.  Spray  dashes  upon  the  rocks  fifty  feet  above 
the  edge  of  the  river,  and  the  gorge  is  filled  with  a  roar  as  of  thunder,  which  is  heard 
many  miles  away. 

Fortunately,  the  wonders  of  the  Grand  Canon  can  now  be  seen  without  incurring 
any  of  the  peril,  and  but  little  of  the  hardship,  endured  by  Major  Powell  and  his  com- 
panions. The  writer  of  this,  and  Mr.  Moran,  the  artist,  visited  two  of  the  most  interest- 
ing points  in  the  canon  in  July  and  August,  1873.  ^^  travelled  by  stage  in  hired 
vehicles — they  could  not  be  called  carriages — and  on  horseback  from  Salt-Lake  City  to 
Toquerville,  in  Southwestern  Utah,  and  thence  about  sixty  miles  to  Kanab,  just  north 
of  the  Arizona  line.  Quite  passable  roads  have  been  constructed  by  the  Mormons  this 
whole  distance  of  about  four  hundred  miles.  At  Kanab  we  met  Professor  A.  H.  Thomp- 
son, in  charge  of  the  topographical  work  of  Major  Powell's  survey,  and,  with  guides  and 
companions  from  his  camp,  we  visited  the  canon. 

Our  first  journey  was  to  the  Toroweap  Valley,  about  seventy  miles.  By  following 
down  this  valley  we  passed  through  the  upper  line  of  cliffs  to  the   edge    of  a  chasm  cut 


WALLS     OF     THE     GRAND     CANON. 


5IO  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

in  red  sandstone  and  vermilion-colored  limestone,  or  marble,  twenty-eight  hundred  feet 
deep,  and  about  one  thousand  feet  wide.  Creeping  out  carefully  on  the  edge  of  the 
precipice,  we  could  look  down  directly  upon  the  river,  fifteen  times  as  far  away  as  the 
waters  of  the  Niagara  are  below  the  bridge.  Mr.  Hillers,  who  has  passed  through  the 
canon  with  Major  Powell,  was  with  us,  and  he  informed  us  that  the  river  below  was  a 
raging  torrent  ;  and  yet  it  looked,  from  the  top  of  the  cliff,  like  a  small,  smooth,  and 
sluggish  river.  The  view  looking  up  the  canon  is  magnificent  and  beautiful  beyond  the 
most  extravagant  conception  of  the  imagination.  In  the  foreground  lies  the  profound 
gorge,  with  a  mile  or  two  of  the  river  seen  in  its  deep  bed.  The  eye  looks  twenty 
miles  or  more  through  what  appears  like  a  narrow  valley,  formed  by  the  upper  line  of 
cliffs.  The  many-colored  rocks  in  which  this  valley  is  carved,  project  into  it  in  vast 
headlands,  two  thousand  feet  high,  wrought  into  beautiful  but  gigantic  architectural 
forms.  Within  an  hour  of  the  time  of  sunset  the  effect  is  strangely  awful,  weird,  and 
dazzhng.  Every  moment  until  light  is  gone  the  scene  shifts,  as  one  monumental  pile 
passes  into  shade,  and  another,  before  unobserved,  into  light.  But  no  power  of  descrip- 
tion can  aid  the  imagination  to  picture  it,  and  only  the  most  gifted  artist,  with  all  the 
materials  that  artists  can  command,  is  able  to  suggest  any  thing  like  it. 

Our  next  visit  was  to  the  Kai-bal  Plateau,  the  highest  plateau  through  which  the 
canon  cuts.  It  was  only  after  much  hard  labor,  and  possibly  a  little  danger,  that  we 
reached  a  point  where  we  could  see  the  river,  which  we  did  from  the  edge  of  Powell 
Plateau,  a  small  plain  severed  from  the  main-land  by  a  precipitous  gorge,  two  thousand 
feet  deep,  across  which  we  succeeded  in  making  a  passage.  Here  we  beheld  one  of  the 
most  awful  scenes  upon  our  globe.  While  upon  the  highest  point  of  the  plateau,  a 
terrific  thunder-storm  burst  over  the  canon.  The  lighting  flashed  from  crag  to  crag.  A 
thousand  streams  gathered  on  the  surrounding  plains,  and  dashed  down  into  the  depths 
of  the  canon  in  water-falls  many  times  the  height  of  Niagara.  The  vast  chasm  which  we 
saw  before  us,  stretching  away  forty  miles  in  one  direction  and  twenty  miles  in  another, 
was  nearly  seven  thousand  feet  deep.  Into  it  all  the  domes  of  the  Yosemite,  if  plucked 
up  from  the  level  of  that  valley,  might  be  cast,  together  with  all  the  mass  of  the  White 
Mountains  in  New  Hampshire,  and  still  the  chasm  would  not  be  filled. 

Kanab  Canon  is  about  sixty  miles  long,  and,  by  following  its  bed,  one  can  descend 
to  the  bottom  of  the  Grand  Canon.  It  is  a  very  difficult  task,  requiring  several  days' 
severe  labor.  We  were  forced,  by  lack  of  time,  which  other  engagements  absorbed,  to 
abandon  the  undertaking  The  picture  drawn  by  the  artist  of  a  pinnacle  in  one  of  the 
angles  of  the  Kanab  is  from  a  photograph  taken  by  Mr.  Hillers.  The  pinnacle  itself 
is  about  eight  hundred,  and  the  wall  in  the  background  of  the  illustration  more  than 
four  thousand  feet  in  altitude.  A  railroad  is  projected  from  Salt-Lake  City  to  the 
southern  settlements,  and,  when  it  is  constructed,  some  of  the  most  remarkable  portions 
of  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado  will  be  as  accessible  as  the  valley  of  the  Yoseraite. 


KAMAB     CANON. 


CHICAGO     AND     MILWAUKEE 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS    BY     ALFRED     R.     WAUD. 


Glimpse  of  Lake  Michigan. 


/''^^HICAGO  is  as  incomparable,  in  its  own  way,  as  Rome.  Its  history  is  as  brilliant 
^"-^  as  it  is  brief,  and,  of  all  young  American  cities,  it  is  the  most  famous.  Less  than 
half  a  century  ago  it  was  an  Indian  trading-station,  with  a  mixed  population  of  one 
hundred  whites,  blacks,  and  red-men.  Long  before  the  site  was  visited  by  a  white  man, 
it  was,  as  we  learn  from  "  The  American  Cyclopedia,"  a  favorite  rendezvous  for  several 
Indian  tribes  in  succession.  The  earliest  recorded  were  the  Tamaroas,  the  most  powerful 
of  many  tribes  of  the  Illini  (whence  the  name  of  Illinois).  The  word  Chicago  is  Indian, 
probably  corrupted  from  Checcaqiia,  the  name  of  a  long  line  of  chiefs,  meaning  "  strong," 
a  word  also  applied  to  a  wild-onion  that  grew  plentifully  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
that    now    winds    through    its    busy    streets.      Let    us    accept   only  the   first    interpretation 


136 


514  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

of  the  word,  and  see  in  the  present  glories  of  the  city  a  transmitted  worth  from  the 
dusky  heroes  that  once  assembled  on  the  spot  for  words  of  wisdom  or  deeds  of  valor. 
It  was  first  visited  by  Marquette  in  1673,  and  shortly  afterward  by  other  French  ex- 
plorers. The  first  geographical  notice  occurs  in  a  map  dated  Quebec,  Canada,  1683,  as 
Fort  Checagou.  A  fort  was  built  by  the  French,  and  abandoned  when  Canada  was  ceded 
to  Great  Britain.  Fort  Dearborn  was  built  in  1804,  by  the  United  States  Government, 
on  the  south  bank  of  the  Chicago  River,  near  its  mouth.  In  181 2,  when  the  war  with 
Great  Britain  broke  out,  the  government  ordered  the  fort  to  be  abandoned,  fearing  it 
could  not  be  held.  The  garrison  and  others  marched  out,  and,  when  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  the  fort,  were  attacked  by  the  Pottawattamie  Indians,  who  massacred  sixty  of  them, 
including  two  women  and  twelve  children,  and  then  destroyed  the  fort.  In  18 16  the  fort 
was  rebuilt,  and  demolished  in  1856.  Chicago  scarcely  advanced  a  single  step  in  the 
hundred  and  fifty  years  that  followed  the  landing  of  Marquette.  For  a  long  time  a  few 
rude  timber  huts  and  a  mission-house,  on  the  low  banks  of  the  creeping  stream,  comprised 
the  settlement.  It  had  no  natural  beauties  to  invite  immigrants  with  a  taste  for  the  pictu- 
resque. Few  trees  sheltered  it  from  the  hot  shafts  of  the  sun.  North,  south,  and  west, 
the  prairie  reached  to  the  horizon  ;  and,  from  eastward.  Lake  Michigan  rolled  in  on  a  flat 
beach,  with  mournful  reverberations.  But,  if  it  was  deficient  in  beauties,  it  was  rich  in 
natural  facilities  for  commercial  intercourse.  With  the  filling  up  of  the  West,  the  town 
began  to  show  the  natural  advantages  of  its  situation.  In  1831  it  contained  about  twelve 
families  besides  the  garrison  in  Fort  Dearborn,  but  in  1833  it  contained  five  hundred 
and  fifty  inhabitants.  In  1837  it  was  incorporated  as  a  city,  when  the  inhabitants  num- 
bered four  thousand  one  hundred  and  seventy.  In  1850  the  population  reached  twenty- 
eight  thousand  two  hundred  and  ninety-six,  in  i860  one  hundred  and  nine  thousand  two 
hundred  and  sixty-three,  and  in  1870  nearly  three  hundred  thousand  souls,  exclusive  of 
the  suburban.     It  is  now  the  fifth  city  of  the  Union. 

Chicago  is  situated  on  the  west  shore  of  Lake  Michigan,  eighteen  miles  north  of 
the  extreme  southern  point  of  the  lake,  at  the  mouth  of  a  bayou,  or  river.  The  site 
of  the  business  portion  is  fourteen  feet  above  the  level  of  the  lake.  It  was  originally 
much  lower,  but  has  been  filled  up  from  three  to  nine  feet  since  1856.  It  is  divided  into 
three  parts  by  a  bayou,  called  the  Chicago  River,  which  extends  from  the  lake-shore 
about  five-eighths  of  a  mile,  then  divides  into  two  branches,  running  north  and  south, 
nearly  parallel  with  the  lake,  about  two  miles  in  each  direction.  The  river  and  its 
branches,  with  numerous  slips,  give  a  water-frontage,  not  including  the  lake-front,  of  thirty- 
eight  miles. 

The  destruction  of  the  larger  part  of  Chicago  by  fire,  in  1871,  is  still  fresh  in  the 
memory  of  every  reader — a  conflagration  the  most  destructive  of  modern  times,  which 
was  followed  by  a  rebuilding  of  the  city  with  an  expedition  and  in  a  style  of  splendor 
that  have  made  it  the  marvel  of  the  age.      Almost  the  entire  business  and  much   of  the 


5i6  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

residence  portion  of  the  city  were  destroyed,  the  burned  area  covering  nearly  three  and  a 
half  square  miles,  the  number  of  buildings  destroyed  being  over  seventeen  thousand, 
including  the  Court-House,  Custom-House,  Post-Office,  forty-one  churches,  thirty-two 
hotels,  ten  theatres  and  halls,  the  total  loss  being  estimated  at  one  hundred  and  ninety 
million  dollars. 

Upon  these  ruins  has  arisen  a  city  of  singular  beauty.  It  cannot  be  claimed,  in  the 
rapidly-constructed  architecture  of  the  city,  that  the  best  taste  has  always  been  followed. 
An  excess  of  trivial  ornament  is  everywhere  apparent.  But  the  business  portion  of  the 
city  has  fewer  evidences  of  bad  taste  than  elsewhere,  while  the  general  effect  of  the 
fagades  is  striking  and  even  admirable.  In  all  other  American  cities  there  is  an  unpleas- 
ant incongruity  in  the  architecture — splendid  warehouses  cheek-by-jowl  with  mean  ones, 
tall  structures  jutting  up  by  short  ones.  This  unhandsome  irregularity  is  prevented  in 
Paris  by  municipal  regulation,  and  has  for  the  most  part  been  avoided  in  Chicago,  inas- 
much as  all  the  structures  are  new,  erected  according  to  the  latest  taste  and  most  devel- 
oped ideas  in  architecture,  and  because  the  builders  have  seemed  to  act  with  some  sort  of 
cooperation.  The  view  on  the  next  page,  entitled  "  Madison  Street,"  gives  a  good  idea 
of  the  beauty  of  the  fagades  in  the  new  business  portion.  This  fact  gives  Chicago  the 
palm  among  American  cities  in  an  important  particular. 

Our  American  cities  are  not  usually  picturesque.  Their  sites  were  selected  for  com- 
mercial convenience ;  hence  they  are  generally  flat.  Time  has  not  yet  mellowed  their 
tints,  nor  age  given  quaintness  to  their  structures.  Long  rows  of  handsome  business 
fagades,  and  avenues  of  embowered  cottages,  however  gratifying  to  their  citizens,  do  not 
supply  the  stuff  which  the  soul  of  the  artist  hungers  for.  But  Chicago  has  one  very  strik- 
ing picturesque  feature.  This  is  its  river,  winding  through  its  heart,  lined  with  warehouses, 
filled  with  vessels,  and  crossed  by  bridges.  Here  is  a  grateful  change  to  the  monotony 
of  stone  and  mortar ;  here  are  animation,  rich  contrasts  of  color  and  form,  picturesque 
confusion — all  that  sort  of  stir  and  variety  that  an  artist  delights  in.  This  river  one  en- 
counters in  almost  any  direction  that  he  may  proceed  ;  and  one  who  loves  to  watch  mov- 
ing ships,  hurrying  boats,  bustling  shores,  thronged  bridges,  can  amuse  himself  for  hours  in 
studying  the  ever-varying  picture.  There  are  thirty-three  of  these  bridges  ;  but,  ample  as 
this  communication  might  seem,  the  impatient  citizens  found  that  the  draws  of  the  bridges 
were  so  constantly  open  for  passing  vessels  that,  in  order  to  facilitate  connection  with 
different  parts  of  the  city,  tunnels  have  been  constructed  under  the  river.  These  add  a 
novel  and  interesting  feature  to  the  city,  as  well  as  greatly  facilitate  intercourse  between 
the  parts  separated  by  the  river. 

A  very  beautiful  portion  of  the  city  was  not  destroyed  in  the  great  conflagration. 
This  included  several  fine  avenues  of  residences  extending  toward  the  south.  Wabash 
Avenue  and  Michigan  Avenue  are  as  famous  as  Fifth  Avenue  of  New  York,  although 
not  resembling  that  famous  thoroughfare.      They  are    of  a   semi-suburban    character,  lined 


SCENES     IN     CHICAGO. 


5i8 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


a 


13! 


with  tree-shadowed  villas  and 
mansions,  and  fine  churches ; 
and  here,  at  all  fashionable 
hours,  may  be  seen  gay 
throngs  of  carriages,  eques- 
trians, and  pedestrians. 

Chicago  has  a  noble 
system  of  public  parks,  cov- 
ering an  area  of  nineteen 
hundred  acres,  and  number- 
ing six  distinct  enclosures. 
All  are  not  yet  completed. 
One  park  lies  on  the  lake- 
shore,  and  affords  a  delight- 
ful drive  by  the  green-tinted 
waters  of  the  great  inland 
sea.  Lincoln  Park  is  very 
charming,  with  its  little  lake, 
its  winding  stream  crossed 
by  many  pretty  little  bridges, 
its  sylvan  glades,  and  its 
wooded  knolls  ;  and  Jeffer- 
son Park  has  similar  charm- 
ing features. 

Among  objects  of  inter- 
est are  the  great  tunnel  for 
supplying  the  city  with  water 
from  the  lake  ;  artesian  wells ; 
towering  grain-elevators,  from 
the  tops  of  which  expansive 
views  may  be  had ;  immense 
stock-yards  ;  and  the  usual  ed- 
ucational, literary,  and  art  in- 
stitutions that  in  every  Amer- 
ican city  spring  up  side  by  side 
with  the  material  interests. 

Milwaukee  hes  about 
ninety  miles  directly  north- 
ward     from      Chicago,     with 


520 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


which  there  is  communication  both  by  rail  and  by  steamers.  The  sail  is  very  pleasant, 
and  occupies  only  a  few  hours.  If  you  leave  Chicago  in  the  evening,  you  may  see  one 
of  the  lake-sunsets  of  which  so  much  is  heard — a  sunset  in  which  the  sun  descends 
behind  rolling  banks  of  clouds,  shedding  the  most  gorgeous  hues  on  the  sky  and  on 
the  sea.  On  the  way  northward  the  shore  of  the  lake  assumes  extraordinary  forms, 
especially  at  a  suburb  of  Chicago  called  Lake  Forest,  which  is  about  twenty-eight  miles 
from  the  city.  Here  the  ground  is  soft  and  clayey,  and  the  constantly  encroaching  surf 
has  worn  it  into  curious  columns  and  peaks,  some  of  them  twisted  and  seamed  in  the 
most  astonishing  fashion.     The    forms    are    constantly  changing    under   the    action    of  the 


^-cvi.,^; 


Shore   of  Lake    Michigan. 


water,  and  we  are  told  that,  after  a  gale,  during  which  the  surf  has  been  very  high,  the 
appearance  of  the  shore  is  almost  completely  changed  in  many  places.  At  one  point,  a 
bank  reaches  to  the  water  in  sharply-serrated  ridges,  which  have  the  exact  appearance  of 
miniature  mountain  -  ranges.  The  narrow  line  of  sandy  beach  is  often  strewed  with 
wrecked  trees  that  have  been  torn  from  their  beds  and  still  hold  their  leaves.  A  more 
melancholy  sight  than  these  wanton  ravages  of  Nature  present  can  scarcely  be  imagined. 
A  short  distance  from  the  shore,  however,  the  country  is  very  picturesque,  and  many 
Chicago  merchants  have  chosen  it  as  the  seat  of  their  summer  villas. 

Occasionally  the    shore    rises    into    a    noble    bluff,  sinking  again  into  a  beach,  with  a 


137 


522 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


gloomy  wood  in  the  rear.  There  are  several  towns  and  villages  on  the  route,  with 
here  and  there  a  white  fishing-station,  consisting  of  a  rude  hut  on  a  low  beach,  and 
half  a  dozen  row-boats.  The  most  important  of  the  towns  are  Kenosha  and  Racine. 
Kenosha  lies  some  fifty  miles  north  of  Chicago  ;  it  is  situated  on  a  high  bluff,  has  a 
good  harbor,  and  the  surrounding  country  is  a  beautiful,  fertile  prairie.  Racine,  which 
lies  seven  miles  farther  to  the  north,  is  in  size  the  second  city  of  the  State  of  Wiscon- 
sin in  population  and  commerce,  and  is  noted  for  a   good    harbor.     It    is    situated  at   the 


Lake    Michigan,    near    Lake    Forest. 


foot  of  Rock  River,  on  a  plain  forty  feet  above  the  level  of  the  lake,  and  is  hand- 
somely laid  out  in  wide  and  well-built  streets.  Immense  piers,  stretching  far  out  into 
the  lake,  are  a  characteristic  feature.     Racine  has  a  college  named  after  the  place. 

Milwaukee,  like  Chicago,  is  prepossessing.  It  is  the  commercial  capital  of  Wiscon- 
sin, and  has  a  population  of  nearly  eighty  thousand  souls.  Like  Chicago,  too,  it  is 
divided  into  three  districts  East,  West,  and  South,  by  a  junction  of  the  Menomonee 
and  the  Milwaukee   Rivers.     The  area    embraced    is    seventeen  miles   square,  and  contains 


Fishing-station. 


Kenosha    Harbor. 


524 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


w 


one  hundred  and  sixty  streets, 
with  fourteen  thousand  dwell- 
ings in  nine  wards.  The  river 
has  been  dammed,  and  its  banks 
are  the  site  of  several  important 
industries.  The  ground  is  more 
hilly  than  in  Chicago ;  and  Mil- 
waukee, in  some  particulars, 
may  claim  to  be  the  prettier. 
A  large  proportion  of  the  pop- 
ulation consists  of  Germans, 
who  give  the  city  a  distinctive 
character  and  appearance.  The 
Americans  say  that  they  are 
like  the  inhabitants  of  a  vil- 
lage, and  are  all  familiar  with 
one  another's  names  and  busi- 
ness. But,  while  the  visitor  is 
constantly  confronted  by  Ger- 
man signs,  and  his  ears  are 
constantly  filled  with  German 
sounds,  Milwaukee  people  have 
the  noticeable  briskness  of 
manner  peculiar  to  the  North- 
west. 

The  city  has  so  many 
domes,  turrets,  cupolas,  spires, 
and  towers,  that  you  might 
imagine  yourself  in  some  Med- 
iterranean port,  especially  if  it 
happened  that  you  had  never 
been  in  a  Mediterranean  port. 
The  architecture  is  diverse  in 
the  extreme,  combining  the 
most  widely-different  styles  ;  but 
it  is  invariably  ornate,  and  lav- 
ishes plaster  statuary,  plaster 
and  iron  castings,  scroll-work, 
and  filigree,  without  distinction, 


CHICAGO    AND    MILWAUKEE. 


525 


on  the  smallest  and  largest 
buildings.  As  we  all  know, 
Milwaukee  is  called  the 
"  Cream  City  of  the  Lakes," 
not  because  it  is  famously 
lactescent,  but  because  the 
color  of  the  brick  used  is  a 
delicate  yellow.  This  mate- 
rial produces  some  very 
pretty  effects,  and  is  used 
very  largely.  The  outlying 
residence  -  streets  are  well 
sheltered  by  trees  and  shrub- 
bery, and  most  of  the  houses 
have  large  gardens  in  the 
front  and  rear,  with  ample 
porticos  reaching  out.  Grot- 
tos and  arbors  are  also 
found  in  many  gardens,  the 
arbors  sometimes  being  of 
the  most  curious  form,  en- 
livened by  the  brightest 
paints. 

The  river  is  navigable 
for  the  largest  class  of  lake- 
vessels  two  miles  inland  from 
the  lake,  and  is  spanned  by 
several  bridges.  The  wharves 
are  substantially  built  out  of 
wood,  and  are  lined  with 
handsome  and  extensive 
structures,  vastly  superior  to 
those  found  on  the  water- 
front of  Chicago  and  New 
York.  Propellers  of  a  thou- 
sand tons'  burden  are  moored 
at  the  very  door-ways  of  the 
newest  and  finest  warehouses, 
and  their  gangways  lead  con- 


528  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

veniently  into  the  best  markets.  The  river,  indeed,  is  an  attractive  resort,  and  a  pair  of 
four-oared  shells  are  often  to  be  seen  pulling  briskly  among  the  fleet  of  steamers  and 
sailing-vessels  ever  moving  in  the  stream.  Milwaukee  manufactures  nearly  three  million 
gallons  of  lager-beer  annually.  Immense  brick  breweries,  capacious  beer  gardens  and 
saloons,  abound  ;  but  the  beer-drinkers  are  church-goers,  and  support  sixty  religious  edi- 
fices, of  various  denominations,  besides  many  excellent  literary  institutions  and  schools. 
Among  the  curiosities  of  the  place  are  the  elevators,  which  have  a  storage  capacity  for 
five  million  bushels  of  grain,  one  of  them  alone  having  a  capacity  for  one  million  five 
hundred  bushels.  There  is  also  a  flouring-mill,  which  grinds  one  thousand  barrels  of  flour 
daily.  But  we  cannot  even  mention  all  the  things  that  are  to  be  seen  in  Milwaukee, 
and  can  only  add  that,  as  it  is  one  of  the  most  charmmg,  it  is  also  one  of  the  most 
active  and  prosperous  of  the  cities  in  the  Western  country. 

The  name  "Milwaukee"  carries  in  its  sound  the  evidence  of  its  Indian  origin.  It 
is  a  modified  spelling  of  "  Mil  wacky,"  the  designation  given  by  the  Indians  to  a  small 
village  near  the  site  of  the  present  city,  and  is  said  to  signify  "  rich  or  beautiful  land." 
Like  so  many  of  the  Western  cities  that  we  carelessly  call  new  and  young,  Milwaukee 
has  a  history  reaching  far  beyond  the  time  of  written  records.  Not  only  are  there  relics 
here  of  very  ancient  Indian  habitations,  but  the  mounds  found  and  opened  near  the  town 
show  unmistakable  proofs  of  the  residence  of  an  even  earlier  race,  whose  very  traditions 
are  now  extinct. 

The  authentic  and  recorded  story  of  the  site  of  the  city  is,  it  is  true,  very  brief. 
We  have  no  mention  of  any  earlier  visitor  of  European  race  to  this  region  than 
Father  Marquette,  the  indefatigable  French  explorer,  who  came  here  in  1674.  After  him, 
very  few,  except  Jesuit  missionaries  and  occasional  traders,  visited  the  place,  until  the 
beginning  of  the  present  century  In  1818  a  trader  of  French  descent  settled  in  the 
Indian  village  of  Milwacky — one  Salomon  Juneau,  whose  family  were  the  only  white 
inhabitants  until  1835.  After  the  Black-Hawk  War,  when  the  Indians  were  pressed 
farther  to  the  west,  others  came  and  settled  near  Juneau's  block-house.  George  Walker 
and  Byron  Kilbourn  appear  to  share  with  the  Frenchman  the  honor  of  founding  the 
actual  town.  From  their  village  to  the  Milwaukee  of  to-day  is  a  change  too  often 
repeated   in   our  Western   cities   to   continue  a  matter  of  wonder. 


Fl 

Q 

ID 

r-H 

^' 

a 


A    GLANCE    AT    THE     NORTHWEST. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    ALFRED    R.     WAUD. 


T"\  WISCONSIN  people  are 
'  '  generally  quiet  about 
the  beauties  of  their  State,  and 
submissively  listen  to  a  great 
deal  of  random  talk  about  lone 
backwoods  and  prairie  -  wastes, 
that  people  who  have  not  been 
there  ignorantly  diffuse.  But  if, 
perchance,  when  you  are  plan- 
ning a  summer's  vacation,  you 
should  feel  weary  of  the  more 
frequented  routes  of  travel,  you 
cannot  do  better  than  devote  a 
week  or  longer  to  a  journey 
that  includes  many  more  pictu- 
resque features  than  these  back- 
woods and  prairie-wastes.  Go 
round  the  great  lakes,  for  in- 
stance ;  break  the  voyage  at 
one  of  the  lake-ports — say  Ma- 
nitowoc, or  Sheboygan — and 
find  your  way  to  the  Wiscon- 
sin River  by  the  Central  Wis- 
consin Railway, 

The  guide-books  and  gazet- 
teers have  very  little  to  say  on 
the  subject.  The  most  that  you 
will  learn  from  them  is,  that 
the  natural  feature  peculiar  to 
the  State  is  the  uniformity  of 
its  elevation  and  the  shape  of 
its  surface,  which  is  neither 
mountainous,  nor  flat,  nor  hilly, 
but  gently  undulating ;  that  the 
river  Wisconsin  has  its  entire 
course    within    the     State,    and 


In   Rood's   Glen. 


138 


530  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

that  it  flows  centrally,  and  enters  the  Mississippi,  on  its  eastern  border;  that  the  only 
notable  hills  in  the  State  are  a  range  to  the  west  of  the  river,  which  still  do  not 
deserve  the  name  of  mountains  ;  that  woodland  is  abundant,  and  especially  increases  in 
thickness  near  Green  Bay,  although  it  is  diversified  with  rolling  prairie,  marsh,  and 
swamp. 

But  there  is  much  besides  to  be  seen  in  this  neglected  State,  and  you  will  do  well 
to  pick  out  your  own  route,  or  select  the  rambling  one  that  we  followed  last  autumn. 
Near  Kilbourn  City,  a  sluggish  little  town,  about  half-way  between  the  source  and  the 
mouth  of  the  Wisconsin  River,  touched  by  the  Lacrosse  branch  of  the  Milwaukee  and  St. 
Paul  Railroad,  you  will  find  Rood's  Glen,  a  bit  of  scenery  that  will  vividly  recall  to  your 
memory  Havana  and  Watkins  Glens,  the  structure  of  which  it  resembles  very  closely,  as 
will  be  seen  in  our  artist's  sketch.  It  is  deep-set  between  walls  of  soft-looking  limestone 
and  moist  earth,  fissured  and  wrinkled  into  many  ledges  and  terraces,  which  are  so  near 
together  in  some  parts  as  to  almost  form  a  cavern.  The  bottom  is  smooth  and  sandy, 
covered  with  a  shallow  pool,  which  reflects  the  bright  greenery  of  the  trees  and  grass 
that  are  twisted  and  interlocked  into  a  natural  arch  overhead.  Some  leafy  boughs  start 
out  from  the  moss,  their  stalks  interlaced  in  closest  union ;  and,  as  they  sway  and  rustle 
in  the  breeze,  the  cool  blue  of  the  sky  and  rifts  of  fleecy  cloud  are  also  mirrored  in  the 
silver  pool,  with  the  sombre  green  of  the  mossy  recesses,  the  brown  shadow  of  the 
walls,  and  the  lighter,  fresher  shades  of  the  grass  and  foliage.  It  is  a  beautiful  spot, 
where  you  may  rest  in  sweet  idleness  for  hours,  listening  to  the  cadenced  trickling  of 
the  spring  as  it  blends  with  the  fluttering  of  the  leaves  and  the  chorus  of  birds  in  the 
fields  around. 

And  not  many  miles  from  this  unheard-of  city  of  Kilbourn  are  other  scenes,  not 
less  picturesque.  In  Barraboo  County,  in  a  basin  for  the  most  part  walled  in  with 
abrupt  hills,  reposes  the  Devil's  Lake,  a  sheet  of  water  as  pretty  as  its  name  is  repellent. 
It  is  of  no  great  extent,  not  more  than  one  and  a  half  mile  in  length  ;  and  it  does  not 
figure  in  the  maps.  But  it  is  a  gem  of  Nature ;  and,  in  the  autumn,  the  contrast  of  its 
still,  emerald-green  waters  with  the  rich  colors  of  the  foliage,  and  the  weird  forms  of  its 
gray  rocks,  is  inexpressibly  lovely.  Its  origin  was,  without  doubt,  volcanic,  the  surround- 
ing cliffs  bearing  evidences  of  the  action  of  great  heat  as  well  as  of  frost.  Round  about, 
too,  are  many  extraordinary  forms,  a  description  of  which  would  fill  a  long  and  interest- 
ing chapter.  The  Devil's  Door-way,  of  which  we  give  an  illustration,  is  characteristic ; 
and  from  its  portals  we  obtain  an  excellent  view  of  a  portion  of  the  lake,  and  the  serene 
vale  of  Kirkwood,  with  its  orchards,  and  the  vineyards  that  are  already  celebrated  for 
their  wine.  Beyond  these  are  wide  reaches  of  hill  and  forest,  thick  with  a  dusky  growth 
of  spruce,  pine,  birch,  oak,  and  aspen,  extending  to  the  water's  edge,  and  abounding  with 
deer  and  other  game.  Cleopatra's  Needle  is  another  of  the  curious  monuments  of  Na- 
ture's freaks  to  which  we  have  alluded.      It    is    an    isolated  column  of  rock,  nearly  sixty 


532 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Cleopatra's   Needle,    Devil's    Lake,    Wisconsin. 


feet    high,  piercing    a    surrounding    bosket   at   a   point  where    the    cliffs   are    sheer   to    the 
bosom  of  the  lake. 

Regaining  the  river,  we  travel  southward,  in  the  track  of  the  railroad  part  of  the 
way,  passing  Lone  Rock,  a  dot  of  an  island  in  the  mid-stream.  It  is  nearly  circular  in 
form,  with    an    area   of  not   many  square  yards;    and  its  sides  have  a  streaky,  corrugated 


A     GLANCE    AT    THE    NORTHWEST. 


533 


appearance.  A  score  or  so  of  thin,  repressed  pine-trees  do  their  best  to  shield  its  barren- 
ness and  be  friendly  ;  but  it  will  not  be  comforted,  and  stands  out  bleakly,  the  current 
lapping  and  eddying  sadly  at  its  feet.  At  another  point  of  the  river  the  boundary  rocks 
counterfeit  the  sterns  of  four  or  five  steamboats  moored  together,  with  their  several  tiers 
of  galleries,  one  above  another ;  and,  as  we  approach  the  Dalles  near  the  mouth,  there 
are  two  isolated  rocks  on  the  river-bank — one  of  them  closely  resembling  a  cobbler's 
awl,  and  the  other  slightly  suggesting  the  same  unromantic  article.     Hereabout  the  stream 


Lone    Rock,    Wisconsin    River. 


Straggles  through  a  desolate,  wild,  melancholy  reach  of  flat  land,  with  low-lying  forests  of 
timber  around ;  and  the  general  inclination  of  the  scenery  to  look  like  something  artifi- 
cial is  again  manifest  in  an  opposite  rock,  the  outlines  of  which  hint  at  the  paddle-box 
of  a  steamer.  In  the  Dalles  we  pass  through  six  miles  of  enchanting  beauty.  The  word 
(pronounced  ddlz),  which  has  become  very  common  in  the  West,  is  of  French  origin, 
and  means  "a  trough."  Hence  it  is  bestowed  on  this  part  of  the  river,  which  passes 
between  hills  of  solid  limestone,  from  thirty  to  one  hundred  feet  high.  The  forms  are 
among  the  most  picturesque  that  we  have  yet  seen.     Some  of  the  rocks  rise  sharply  from 


534 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


the  water,  and  extend  outward  near  their  summits,  so  as  to  form  a  sort  of  shelter  for  the 
luxuriant  grass  that  crops  out  in  slender,  wavy  blades  from  the  shoals.  Others  are  per- 
pendicular from  their  base  to  the  table-land  above,  which  is  richly  verdant  with  grass, 
and  evergreen  shrubs  and  trees.  Here  there  is  a  narrow  slope,  bringing  leafy  boughs  to 
the  water's  edge ;  and  yonder  a  shadowy  inlet,  its  entrance  hidden  by  a  curtain  of  deli- 
cately colored,  seemingly  luminous  leaves.  The  shadows  on  the  water  are  of  exquisitely 
varied    hues    and    forms.      The    sky,  the    clouds,  the    leaves,  are  mingled  on  the  unruffled 


Steamboat   Rock,   Wisconsin    River. 


surface,  save  where  the  massive  rock  intervenes.  At  the  Jaws  we  move  from  one  spot 
which  we  think  the  most  lovely  to  another  that  excels,  and  on  through  inexhaustible 
beauties,  in  a  state  of  unalloyed  rapture.  There  is  as  much  "  life "  in  the  Dalles  as  the 
most  sociable  of  tourists  could  desire.  On  fine  days  in  the  summer  the  water  is  skimmed 
by  pleasure -barges  and  row-boats,  filled  with  gayly-dressed  people  from  neighboring  towns ; 
and  at  all  times  lumber-rafts  are  descending  slowly  to  the  Mississippi,  manned  by  half- 
savage,  outlandish   fellows,  thoroughly  picturesque  in  aspect,  if  nothing    else.      The    rocks 


536 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


echo  the  laughter  and  songs  of  the  pleasure-seekers,  who  pause  to  cheer  us  as  we  paddle 
farther  down  the  stream  toward  the  great  river  of  the  Southwest. 

Scattered  over  the  plains  of  Wisconsin  are  found  curious  earthworks  of  fantastic 
and  extraordinary  forms,  relics  of  a  race  that  inhabited  Wisconsin  centuries  ago.  At 
Aztalan,  in  Jefferson  County,  there  is  an  ancient  fortification,  five  hundred  and  fifty  yards 


Dalles   of  the   Wisconsin,    "The   Jaws." 


long,  two  hundred  and  seventy-five  yards  wide,  with  walls  four  or  five  feet  high.  There 
are  also  numerous  water-falls  to  be  seen— the  Chippewa,  Big  Bull,  Grandfather  Bull,  and 
the  St.  Croix — all  of  them  interesting  and  accessible  ;  besides,  Pentwell  Peak,  an  oval 
mass  of  rock,  three  hundred  feet  wide,  two  hundred  feet  high,  and  nine  hundred  feet 
long ;    and  Fortification  Rock,  a  picturesque  stroke  of  Nature,  which  towers  one  hundred 


139 


538 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


feet    high,  and    on    one  side  is  a  sheer  precipice,  while   on   the    other   an    easy  descent  is 
made  to  the  plain  by  a  series  of  natural  terraces. 

From  Wisconsin  we  run  northward  to  the  thriving  town  of  Duluth  and  the  St.- 
Louis  River,  and  visit  the  Dalles  of  the  St.  Louis,  which  are  better  known,  but  not 
more  beautiful,  than  other  places  we  have  already  seen  in  our  tour.  The  sentiment  of 
the  scene  is  not  inspiriting ;  Nature  is  harsh,  rugged,  and  sombre,  tearing  her  way  in  a 
water-course  four  miles  long,  with  a  descent  of  four  hundred  feet.     The  banks  are  formed 


Red   River,    Dakota. 


of  cold,  gray  slate-rocks,  clad  with  an  ample  growth  of  bleak  pine,  and  twisted,  split,  and 
torn  into  the  wildest  of  shapes.  Through  the  dismal  channel  thus  bordered  the  current 
surges  with  terrific  force,  leaping  and  eddying,  and  uttering  a  savage  roar  that  the  neigh- 
boring hills  sullenly  reverberate.  Here  and  there  an  immense  bowlder  opposes  and  is 
nearly  hidden  by  the  seething,  hissing,  foamy  waves,  which  dance  and  struggle  around 
and  over  it,  sometimes  submerging  it,  and  then,  exhausted,  falling  into  a  quieter  pace. 
Occasionally  the  spray  leaps  over  the  banks,  and  forms  a  silver  thread  of  a  rivulet,  which 
trickles  over  the  stones  until  its  little  stream  tumbles  into   the    unsparing    current    again. 


A     GLANCE    AT    THE    NORTHWEST 


539 


and  is  lost.  This  continuous  rapid  of  four  miles  is  a  grand,  deeply  impressive  sight ; 
but  on  a  stormy  day,  when  great  white  clouds  are  rolling  downward,  and  the  wind  adds 
its  voice  to  that  of  the  turbulent  waters,  we  shiver  and  sigh  involuntarily  as  we  con- 
template it. 

From  Minnesota  we  cross  to  the  Red  River  of  the  North,  in  Dakota — a  stream  with 
an  evil  reputation  for  its  sadness  and  loneliness.  The  names  of  its  surroundings  are  far 
from  encouraging — such  as  Thief  River,  Snake  River,  and  Devil's  Lake — but  some  of 
the  scenery  has  a  quiet,  pastoral  character,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  accompanying  sketches. 
The  water  is  muddy  and  sluggish,  and  within  Minnesota  alone  is  navigable  four  hundred 
miles,  for  vessels  of  three  feet  draught,  four  months  in  the  year.  The  banks  are  com- 
paratively low,  and  are  luxuriantly  grassy  and  woody.  There  are  "  bits  "  of  secluded  land- 
scape that  transport  us  to  New  England,  but  we  are  soon  recalled  by  a  glimpse  of  an 
Indian  trail  through  the  grass,  a  canoe  toiling  against  the  stream,  and  a  clump  of  decay- 
ing trees  in  withered,  uncared-for  desolation. 


Indian  Trail,    Bank   of  Red   River. 


THE    MAMMOTH    CAVE. 


WITH      ILLUSTRATIONS      BY      ALFRED      R.      WAUD 


T^HE  Mammoth  Cave  of   Kentucky 
-*-      is    the  largest  known  cave  in  the 
world.      It    is  situated  near  Green  Riv- 
er,   on    the    road     from     Louisville    to 
Nashville.      Some     explorers     claim    to 
have  penetrated  it  to  a  distance    of  ten 
miles ;  hut  they  probably  exaggerate,  as 
the    paths    through    it    are    so    tortuous, 
and    the    progress   of  the  traveller  is  so 
much  obstructed,  that  they  might  easily 
be  deceived.     Stalactites  of  gigantic  size 
and  fantastic  form  are  seen  here,  though 
they   are    not    as   brilliant  as  those  that 
adorn    other   and    smaller    caves    elsewhere.      But,  if  the    Mammoth    Cave    is    deficient  in 
pretty  effects,  it  is  crowded  with  wild,  fantastic,  and    deeply  impressive  forms,  that  almost 
forbid  the  intrusion  of  the  curiosity-seeking  tourist  from  the  surface  of  the  earth. 

The  railway  deposits  you  at  Cave  City,  and  thence  a  stage-ride  of  ten  miles  brings 
you  to  an  old-fashioned  Kentucky  hotel,  where  guides  are  procured  for  the  exploration. 
Each  person  is  provided  with  a  lamp ;  and  then  you  are  led,  in  military  order,  by  a 
pompous  negro,  who    shouts    "Halt!"   and    "March!"  with  comical  gravity,  down  a  path 


SCENES     IN     MAMMOTH     CAVE. 


542  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

that  enters  a  wooded  ravine,  and,  slanting  aside,  terminates  suddenly  at  the  portals  of  the 
cave.  The  entrance  is  abundantly  supplied  with  vegetation.  Trailing  plants  descend  from 
the  arch  above ;  grass  and  moss  grow  thickly  around  ;  and  the  cool  beauty  of  the  scene 
is  enhanced  by  a  slender  thread  of  water,  which  falls  continually  into  a  small  pool  below. 
But  you  have  little  time  to  linger  here.  The  conductor  lights  the  lamps,  and,  in  a  severe 
voice,  calls  "  Forward ! "  A  few  lichens  wander  a  little  way  in  from  the  entrance,  with 
the  daylight,  and  then  all  vegetation  abruptly  ceases.  You  are  ushered  into  a  primitive 
chaos  of  wild  limestone  forms,  moist  with  the  water  oozing  from  above.  A  strong  cur- 
rent of  air  is  behind  you,  as  you  think ;  but  it  is  in  reality  the  "  breath "  of  the  cave. 
In  explanation,  you  are  told  that  the  temperature  of  the  cave  is  fifty-nine  degrees  Fah- 
renheit the  year  round,  and  the  cave  exhales  or  inhales,  as  the  temperature  outside  is 
above  or  below  this  uniform  standard.  As  you  proceed  farther,  the  chill  felt  near  the 
entrance  passes  away,  and  the  air  is  still,  dry,  and  warm. 

For  nearly  half  a  mile  on  your  way  you  see,  in  the  dim  light,  the  ruins  of  the  salt- 
petre works  that  were  built  in  1808,  by  persons  in  the  employ  of  the  United  States 
Government.  The  huge  vats  and  tools  still  remain  undecayed.  The  print  of  an  ox's 
hoof  is  embedded  in  the  hard  floor,  and  the  ruts  of  cart-wheels  are  also  traceable. 

Advancing  farther,  you  enter  the  Rotunda,  which  is  illuminated  for  a  moment  by  a 
sheet  of  oiled  paper  lighted  by  the  guide.  It  is  over  seventy-five  feet  high,  one  hundred 
and  sixty  feet  across,  directly  under  the  dining-room  of  the  hotel,  and  the  beginning  of 
the  main  cave.  These  things  are  imparted  to  you,  in  a  loud  voice,  by  the  guide.  The 
lamps  throw  a  feeble  light  on  the  dark,  irregular  walls,  broken  in  places  by  the  mysterious 
entrances  to  several  avenues  which  lead  from  the  main  cave,  and  are  said  to  extend  alto- 
gether a  distance  of  one  hundred  miles !  What  if  the  lights  should  go  out .?  The 
thoughtful  guide  is  provided  with  matches,  and  he  will  proudly  tell  you  that  there  is 
scarcely  a  spot  into  which  a  traveller  could  stray  that  he  is  not  familiar  with.  As  you 
tramp  onward,  your  companions  ahead  are  rimmed  with  light ;  and,  if  your  imagination 
is  active,  you  might  transform  them  into  gnomes  or  other  inhabitants  of  the  subterranean 
world,  albeit  their  movements  are  sedate  as  those  of  gnomes  doing  penance.  Anon,  too, 
the  supernatural  aspect  of  the  scene  is  heightened  by  the  fluttering  of  a  bat  that  spins 
out  of  a  dark  crevice  for  an  instant,  and  disappears  again  in  the  all-enveloping  darkness. 
If  you  have  courage  to  look,  you  will  find  nests  of  his  brethren  in  the  walls,  and  a 
sly  rat  will  dart  away  at  your  approach.  One  chamber,  entered  from  the  Rotunda, 
bears  the  unattractive  name  of  the  Great  Bat-Room ;  and  here  thousands  of  the  little 
creatures  are  found  snarling  and  curling  their  delicate  lips  at  all  intruders.  These  and 
the  rats,  a  few  lizards,  a  strange  kind  of  cricket,  and  some  eyeless  fish,  constitute  the 
entire  animal  life  of  this  kingdom  of  everlasting  gloom. 

From  the  Rotunda  you  pass  beneath  the  beetling  Kentucky  Cliffs,  and  enter  the 
Gothic  Chapel,    a    low-roofed    chamber    of    considerable    extent.       Several    twisted    pillars 


ON    r//t    LAKE 


SCENES     IN     MAMMOTH     CAVE. 


544  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

ascend  from  the  ground  into  arches  formed  of  jagged  rock,  and,  in  the  distance,  there 
are  two  which  form  an  altar  of  ghttering  splendor  as  the  light  falls  on  their  brill- 
iant stalactites.  Near  here,  too,  is  the  Bridal  Chamber,  and  the  guide  will  tell  you 
how  a  certain  maiden,  having  promised  at  the  death-bed  of  her  mother  that  she  would 
not  marry  any  man  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  came  down  to  this  dark  place  and  was 
married.  He  will  also  tell  you  that  these  great  stalactites  that  are  so  massive  take  fifty 
years  to  grow  to  the  thickness  of  a  sheet  of  paper.  Then,  with  a  sharp  w^ord  of  com- 
mand, he  will  lead  you  on   into  fresh  wonders. 

There  are  rivers  and  lakes  among  the  mysteries  of  the  Mammoth  Cave,  and  you 
are  floated  in  a  small  boat  on  the  dark,  stilly,  lone  waters,  among  columns  and  walls, 
arches  and  spires,  leaden-hued  rock  and  jewelled  stalactites,  lighted  up  by  a  flaring  torch 
in  the  guide's  hand.  Memory  cannot  retain  a  distinct  idea  of  the  thousand  weird  forms 
that  are  constantly  flitting  before  the  eye.  As  you  pass  one  point,  a  mass  of  rock 
assumes  a  human  form,  lowering  upon  you,  and  the  next  instant  it  vanishes  from  the 
sight  into  the  darkness. 

The  next  halt  is  in  another  wide  room,  in  the  middle  of  which  rests  an  immense 
rock,  in  the  exact  shape  of  a  sarcophagus.  This  is  called  the  Giant's  Cofhn,  and  the 
guide,  leaving  you  alone  for  a  minute  or  two,  reappears  on  its  lid,  his  form,  shadowed 
on  the  wall,  imitating  all  his  movements.  Above  the  shadow  you  will  notice  the  figure 
of  an  ant-eater,  one  of  the  many  shapes  with  which  the  ceilings  of  the  caverns  are 
adorned  by  the  oxide  of  iron.  You  will  then  rest  a  while  under  the  Mammoth  Dome, 
which  appears  much  over  a  hundred  feet  high,  with  its  magnificent  walls  of  sheer  rock, 
and  at  Napoleon's  Dome,  which  is  smaller  than  the  former,  but  hardly  less  interesting. 
Afterward  the  guide  will  conduct  you  to  the  edge  of  a  projecting  rock  overlooking  a 
hollow,  the  surface  of  which  is  composed  of  bowlder-like  masses  of  rock,  ridiculously 
called  the  Lover's  Leap.  In  the  Star-Chamber  the  stalactites  assume  new  forms,  even 
more  curious  and  beautiful  than  the  others ;  and,  in  Shelby's  Dome,  you  are  ushered 
into  a  scene  of  indescribable  grandeur.  The  height  seems  limitless,  and  the  eye  traces  on 
the  walls  innumerable  scrolls,  panels,  and  fanciful  projections  of  the  most  varied  design 
and  beauty.  Under  the  dome  is  the  celebrated  Bottomless  Pit,  which  has  a  depth  of 
one  hundred  and  seventy-five  feet,  and  a  wooden  Bridge  of  Sighs,  which  leads  from 
this  chasm  to  another,  called  the  Side  -  Saddle  Pit.  A  railing  surrounds  the  principal 
pit,  and,  as  you  stand  holding  to  it,  and  peering  into  the  depths,  the  guide  illuminates 
the  dome  above,  affording  one  the  grandest  sights  in  the  cave. 

At  a  point  called  the  Acute  Angle  there  is  a  rude  pile  of  unhewn  stone,  called 
McPherson's  Monument,  which  was  built  by  the  surviving  staff-officers  of  that  general. 
A  stone  is  occasionally  added  to  the  pile  by  those  of  McPherson's  soldiers  or  friends 
who  visit  the  cave. 


NEW    YORK    AND    BROOKLYN 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS     BY     HARRY     FENN. 


New-York   Bay. 


1  "HERE  are  few  cities  in  the  world  so  admirably  situated  as  New  York.  The 
-*-  grand  Hudson  rolls  its  waters  on  one  side  ;  the  swift  and  deep  tides  of  the  East 
River  wash  it  on  the  other ;  both  unite  at  its  southern  extremity,  where  they  expand 
into  a  broad  bay  ;  and  this  bay  is  practically  a  land-locked  harbor,  that,  by  a  narrow 
gate-way,  opens  into  the  expanses  of  the  Atlantic.  The  Hudson  comes  down  from  the 
north,  a  wide,  deep  stream  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  opening  intercourse  with  the 
far  interior;  the  East  River,  which  is  an  arm  of  the  sea  rather  than  a  river,  opens  twenty 


140 


546 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


F-) 


miles  from  its  mouth  into  Long-Island 
Sound,  establishing  by  this  water -course 
and  tributary  streams  connection  with  the 
New  -  England  States.  Bays  and  rivers 
completely  encompass  the  place.  It  is  an 
island,  very  narrow  at  its  southern  or  bay 
end,  broadening  in  its  centre  to  a  width 
of  two  miles,  and  narrowing  again  at  its 
northern  extremity.  On  its  eastern  side, 
eight  miles  from  the  Battery,  is  the 
mouth  of  the  Harlem,  a  mere  bayou  of 
East  River,  which,  running  west  and  then 
northerly,  connects  by  Spuyten  -  Duyvil 
Creek  with  the  Hudson,  forming  the 
northern  boundary  of  the  island,  which, 
on  its  eastern  side,  is  eleven  miles  long. 
The  island  is  frequently  known  by  the 
name  of  Manhattan,  so  called  after  the 
Indian  tribe  that  once  made  it  their 
home. 

Our  artist  approaches  the  city  by  the 
way  of  the  sea.  We  sail  up  the  broad 
expanse  of  water  known  as  the  Lower 
Bay,  nearing  the  famous  Narrows,  a  com- 
paratively contracted  channel,  formed  by 
the  projection  of  Long  Island  on  one 
side  and  Staten  Island  on  the  other. 
The  shore  of  each  island,  at  the  narrow- 
est part,  is  crowned  with  forts,  fortified 
by  embankments,  and  both  bristle  with 
cannon.  The  Long-Island  shore  is  com- 
paratively flat,  but  is  handsomely  wood- 
ed, and  some  pretty  villages  and  villas 
peep  out  from  their  screens  of  foliage. 
Staten  Island  rises  into  fine  hills,  which 
are  crowned  with  noble  mansions  and 
graced  with  park -like  grounds,  while  at 
their  feet,  on  the  shore,  cluster  busy  and 
bustling  villages. 


NEW    YORK    AND    BROOKLYN. 


547 


Through  the  Narrows  opens  the  In- 
ner Bay  ;  and,  as  we  swiftly  cut  through 
the  crisp  and  ever -fretted  waters,  New 
York  rises  before  us  from  the  sea,  in  the 
centre  of  the  picture  ;  the  city  of  Brook- 
lyn, on  Long  Island,  to  the  right,  spreads 
a  far  and  measureless  sea  of  roofs,  with 
endless,  sky-aspiring  spires  ;  the  shores  of 
New  Jersey  extend  along  the  far  western 
border  of  the  picture,  on  the  left,  with 
faint  markings  of  Jersey  City  a  little  be- 
yond, on  the  shores  of  the  Hudson.  The 
picture  cannot  easily  be  excelled  for  beau- 
ty ;  but  one  or  two  bays  in  the  world 
are  finer,  and  none  are  more  animated 
with  stirring  and  picturesque  life.  .  Here 
are  the  tall,  white-sailed  ships ;  the  swift, 
black-funnelled  steamers;  the  stately  steam- 
boats from  the  Hudson  or  the  Sound ; 
the  graceful,  winged  pleasure -yachts ;  the 
snorting,  bull  -  dog  tugs  ;  the  quaint,  tall- 
masted,  and  broad  -  sailed  schooners  ;  the 
flotilla  of  barges  and  canal  -  boats ;  the 
crab-shaped  but  swift-motioned  ferry-boats, 
all  coming,  going,  swiftly  or  slowly,  amid 
fleets  of  anchored  ships,  from  whose  gaffs 
fly  the  flags  of  far-off  nations.  New-York 
Bay,  when  the  air  is  crisp  and  bright,  the 
sky  brilliant  with  summer  blue,  the  swell- 
ing shores  clear  and  distinct  in  their 
wooded  hills  and  clustering  villages,  the 
waters  dancing  in  white-crested  waves  in 
the  glaring  sun,  affords  a  picture  that  can 
scarcely  be  equalled.  A  similar  animation 
marks  the  two  rivers.  Our  artist  has 
sketched  the  moving  panorama  of  the 
East  River,  also  showing  the  unfinished 
tower  of  the  contemplated  bridge — a  pict- 
ure full  of  life,  color,  and  light. 


If  te'  'sW' 


',0.,      '^fJ 

■s7 


NEW    YORK    AND    BROOKLYN. 


549 


As  we  approach  the  city 
we  note  the  fringe  of  trees 
and  the  circular,  fort  -  like 
structure  that  mark  the  low- 
er border.  These  are  the 
Battery  and  the  Castle  Gar- 
den— the  Battery  a  pleasure- 
promenade,  with  a  fine  sea- 
wall, and  the  Garden,  so 
called,  the  great  entrepot 
through  which  the  vast  bodies 
of  immigrants  from  the  Old 
World  pass  into  the  life  of 
the  New  World.  Castle  Gar- 
den was  once  a  fort,  after- 
ward a  summer  tea-garden, 
then  a  music-hall  and  public 
assembly  -  room,  and  is  now 
the  headquarters  of  the  Com- ' 
missioners  of  Emigration. 
The  Battery  was  once  the 
only  pleasure  -  ground  of  the 
New-Yorkers,  and,  if  its  his- 
tory were  accurately  and  fully 
written,  it  would  tell  a  strange 
story  of  love  and  flirtation, 
of  famous  persons  and  fair 
dames,  of  ancient  Knicker- 
bockers, of  life  social  and  po- 
litical, interwoven  in  a  varied 
woof.  It  has  fallen  into 
fashionable  disrepute,  although 
it  has  been  enlarged  and  laid 
out  anew.  But  the  fine  old 
trees  that  mark  the  ancient 
place  look  scornfully  down 
upon  the  unhistoric  exten- 
sion, with  its  feeble  new  trees 
and  its  walks  barren  of  asso- 


u 


A     NEW-YORK     RIVER-FRONT. 


NEW    YORK   AND    BROOKLYN. 


551 


ciation  and  unfamiliar  with  ro- 
mance. 

Before  entering  the  heart  of 
the  city,  let  us  glance  with  the 
artist  at  a  quaint  and  picturesque 
scene,  lying  but  a  short  distance 
from  the  Battery  on  the  East- 
River  side.  This  is  a  portion 
of  the  town  which  modern  im- 
provement has  left  untouched  ; 
the  wharves  where  the  old-fash- 
ioned ships  from  far  -  off  ports 
discharge  their  precious  cargoes; 
where  merchants  of  the  old 
Knickerbocker  quality  conduct 
their  business  in  dark  and  un- 
savory chambers  ;  where  the  old 
tars,  the  Cuttles  and  Bunsbys, 
are  wont  to  assemble;  where  the 
very  idea  of  a  steamship  is  pro- 
fanation — -  a  venerable,  quaint, 
and  decaying  place,  dear  to  the 
hearts  of  the  ancient  mariners. 

Within  the  city,  our  artist 
takes  us  at  once  to  the  spire 
of  Trinity  Church.  This  famous 
edifice  is  comparatively  a  new 
church  upon  the  site  of  one 
dating  far  back  into  the  annals 
of  the  city.  It  is  a  new  church, 
but  the  grounds  around  it  are 
marked  by  ancient  and  crum- 
bling grave  -  stones,  an  antique, 
tree  -  embowered  spot  in  the 
heart  of  the  busiest  portion  of 
the  town.  Trinity  Church  is 
less  than  half  a  mile  from  the 
Battery,  standing  on  Broadway 
and    facing    down   Wall    Street 


Trinity-Church    Tower. 


552 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


which  all  the  world 
knows  as  the  monetary 
centre  of  the  continent. 
From  the  outlook  of 
the  spire  the  picture  is 
a  varied  one.  Looking 
southward,  the  spectator 
sees  Bowling  Green,  a 
small  enclosure  at  the 
terminus  of  Broadway, 
and,  just  beyond,  the 
Battery,  with  the  circu- 
lar mass  of  Castle  Gar- 
den. Beyond  these  are 
the  bay,  with  Governor's 
Island  and  its  fort,  and 
the  distant  hills  of  Stat- 
en  Island.  The  views 
from  our  elevated  posi- 
tion are  all  good.  The 
artist  has  given  a  glance 
up  Broadway,  which  gives 
one  an  idea  of  the  spirit 
of  this  part  of  the  street, 
shows  some  of  the  tall, 
marble  structures,  and 
indicates  the  bustling 
throngs  upon  the  pave- 
ments below. 

The  artist  has  made 
no  attempt  to  illustrate 
the  varied  features  of 
the  metropolis,  but  sim- 
ply to  give  a  glimpse  or 
two  at  its  interior,  by 
which  the  imagination 
may  build  up  a  tolerably 
correct  idea  of  the  char- 
acteristics   of    the    place. 


NEW    YORK    AND    BROOKLYN. 


553 


In  one  picture  he  has  com- 
bined views  of  three  of  the 
most  noted  of  the  small  parks 
of  the  city.  Washington  Park 
lies  off  a  little  v^est  of  Broad- 
way, and  is  the  starting-point 
of  the  fashionable  Fifth  Avenue. 
The  castellated-looking  building 
that  stands  on  its  eastern  bor- 
der is  the  University,  a  Gothic 
pile  of  considerable  age  and 
quaint  aspect,  suggestive  of  the 
mediaeval  structures  that  lie  scat- 
tered through  the  European 
countries.  Union  Square  is  at 
the  bend  of  the  main  division 
of  Broadway  ;  Fourteenth  Street 
is  its  southern  and  Fourth  Ave- 
nue its  eastern  border.  Here 
are  statues  of  Washington  and 
Lincoln.  Madison  Square  is 
half  a  mile  north  of  this,  ly- 
ing with  great  hotels  and  busi- 
ness places  on  its  western  side, 
and  sedate,  aristocratic,  brown- 
stone  houses  on  its  other  con- 
fines. It  is  at  a  point  that  is 
considered  the  social  centre  of 
the  city. 

From  this  point  our  artist 
takes  us  to  the  tower  of  the 
novel,  Oriental  -  looking  syna- 
gogue at  the  corner  of  Forty- 
second  Street  and  Fifth  Ave- 
nue, from  which  we  have  a 
cursory  glance  at  the  highway 
of  fashion.  Every  city  has  as 
handsome  streets  as  Fifth  Ave- 
nue ;   to  those,  indeed,  who  like 

141 


Broadway,    from    Trinity,    New    York. 


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NEW    YORK    AND    BROOKLYN. 


555 


streets  of  embowered  villas, 
many  are  handsomer ;  but  no 
city  has  an  avenue  of  such 
length  given  over  exclusively 
to  wealth  and  elegance.  From 
its  southern  extremity  at  Wash- 
ington Park  to  the  entrance  of 
Central  Park  at  Fifty  -  ninth 
Street,  the  distance  is  two 
miles  and  a  half,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  the  short  space  at 
Madison  Square,  it  presents 
through  this  long  extent  one 
unbroken  line  of  costly  and 
luxurious  mansions.  The  streets 
that  branch  from  it  to  the 
right  and  the  left  have  mostly 
this  same  characteristic  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  either  way  ; 
so  that,  in  an  oblong  square  of 
two  miles  and  a  half  by  half  a 
mile,  there  is  concentrated  an 
undisputed  and  undisturbed  so- 
cial   supremacy. 

At  the  corner  of  Fifty- 
ninth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue 
is  the  main  entrance  to  Cen- 
tral Park.  This  park  extends 
northward  to  One  Hundred 
and  Tenth  Street,  or  a  distance 
of  two  and  a  half  miles,  but  it 
is  not  more  than  half  a  mile 
wide.  Central  Park  is  the 
pride  of  the  metropolis.  Less 
than  twenty  years  ago  the 
greater  part  of  its  area  was  a 
mass  of  rude  rocks,  tangled 
brushwood,  and  ash-heaps.  It 
had    long  been    the    ground  for 


A    Glimpse    of   Fifth    Avenue. 


SCENES     IN     CENTRAL     PARK. 


NEW    YORK   AND    BROOKLYN. 


557 


depositing  city-refuse,  and  tens  of  thousands  of  cart-loads  of  tiiis  refuse  had  to  be  re- 
moved before  the  natural  surface  could  be  reached  or  the  laying  out  begun.  Art  had 
to  do  every  thing  for  it.  There  were  no  forests,  no  groves,  no  lawns,  no  lakes,  no 
walks  ;  it  was  simply  a  desert  of  rocks  and  rubbish.  The  ground  was  excavated  for 
lakes ;  trees  were  planted  ;  roads  and  paths  laid  out  ;  bridges  built.  The  result  is  a 
pleasure-ground  that  is  already  famous,  and  only  needs  a  little  more  maturing  of  the 
trees  to  be  one  of  the  handsomest  parks  of  the  world.  It  is  not  so  large  as  some  in 
Europe,  but  its  size  is  not  insignificant,  numbering  eight  hundred  and  forty-three  acres  ; 
while,  in  its  union  of  art  with  Nature,  its  many  bridges  of  quaint  design,  its  Italian-like 
terrace,  its  towers  and  rustic  hduses,  its  boat  -  covered  lakes,  its  secluded  rambles  and 
picturesque  nooks,  its  wide  walks  and  promenades,  it  is  unapproached  in  this  country  and 


'  '"J^i^^'i^  %, 


Harlem    River,    High    Bridge. 


unexcelled  abroad.  Our  artist  gives  a  few  glimpses  at  places  in  the  park,  but  it  would 
take  a  volume  to  illustrate  it  fully.  One  element  of  satisfaction  in  the  park  is  that  it  is 
not  only  an  art  and  picturesque  triumph — it  is  a  popular  success.  Its  superb  drives  are 
thronged  with  vehicles,  while  all  its  paths  are  occupied  on  summer  afternoons  by  im- 
mense numbers  of  the  people.  The  enjoyment  of  the  visitors  is  enhanced  by  many 
extraneous  means.  There  are  an  aviary  and  a  menagerie  tolerably  well  filled,  and  which 
are  the  nuclei  of  what  are  destined  to  be  large  institutions  ;  and  there  is  also  a  Museum 
of  Natural  History.  There  are  boats  on  the  lakes  ;  a  camera ;  and  twice  a  week  there 
is  music.  For  the  children  there  are  nurseries,  goat  -  carriages,  camel  -  riding,  swings, 
"  run-rounds,"  and  other  devices. 

Above  Central  Park,  the  whole    island   has    been    recently    laid    out    anew  in  superb 


558 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


drives  and  broad  public  ways,  where  one  may  always  see 
the  fast  horses  of  the  bloods.  But  all  here  is  new,  and, 
with  the  exception  of  the  roads,  unconstructed.  There  is 
the  animation  of  crowded  thoroughfares,  but  nothing  pict- 
uresque. At  Harlem  River,  which  forms  the  northern 
boundary  of  the  island,  there  is  a  change.  The  banks  of 
this  river  are  high  and  well  wooded.  It  is  crossed  by  sev- 
eral bridges,  and  by  a  viaduct  for  the  waters  of  the  Cro- 
ton,  which  are  here  brought  into  the  town  from  the  rural 
districts  above  for  the  use  of  the  citizens,  and  which  is 
known  by  the  somewhat  incorrect  and  very  prosaic  desig- 
nation of  High  Bridge.  It  is  a  handsome  structure,  how- 
ever, of  high  granite  piers    and   graceful   arches,  and  shows 


from  different  points  of  view, 
through  vistas  of  trees,  from 
the  open  river,  from  distant  hills,  from  approach- 
ing drives,  with  singular  and  even  lofty  beauty. 
The  tall  tower  shown  in  the  engraving  is  for 
the  elevation  of  the  Croton  to  an  altitude  suffi- 
cient   to    give    it    force    for    the    supply    of    resi- 


Ilisrh    Bridge    nnd    Water-Tower. 


N£IV    YORK   AND    BROOKLYN. 


559 


dences  on  the  high  banks  in   the  upper  part  of  the  city.     Tower  and  bridge  make  a  fine 
effect. 

King's  Bridge  crosses  the  river  near  Spuyten-Duyvil  Creek,  which  unites  the  Harlem 


King's    Bridge. 


with  the  Hudson.  This  is  an  old,  historic  bridge,  identified  with  many  of  the  early 
events  in  the  history  of  the  town.  The  scene  here  has  something  of  that  ripe  mellow- 
ness and  effective  grouping   of   landscape    with    adjuncts    of  art    that    give    such    a    charm 


56o 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Spuyten-Duyvil   Creek. 


to    old  -  country 
scenes.     The  ar- 
tist    also    gives 
us  a  glimpse  of 
Spuyten    Duyvil    near    the    Hudson,  the  tall 
escarpments   in   the   distance   being   the  well- 
known   Palisades  of  the  Hudson. 

From    Harlem    we    proceed    to    the    great    city    of 
'^"-r  Brooklyn,  lying  opposite  to  New  York,  on  Long  Island, 

glancing  on  our  way  at  two  famous  points  in  the  East  River.  One  is 
Hell  Gate,  situated  at  a  narrow  bend  of  the  river,  near  the  point  where  the  Harlem 
debouches.  It  is  filled  with  dangerous  rocks  and  shallows ;  and,  as  the  tide  is  very 
swift,  the  channel  narrow,  the  bend  abrupt,  there  is  always  danger  that  a  vessel  may 
be  driven  upon  the  rocks.  Some  of  the  more  dangerous  obstructions  have  been  re- 
moved, and,  as  we  write,  extensive  subterranean  channels  are  becoming  opened  under  the 
rocks,  which  are  eventually  to  be  filled  with  powder,  and  the  shallow  reefs  blown  to 
atoms.  Blackwell's  Island  begins  just  below  Hell  Gate,  and  extends  about  two  miles 
southward.  It  is  occupied  solely  by  city  institutions,  penal  and  otherwise.  Here  are  the 
House    of   Correction,   Lunatic  Asylum,  Workhouse,    and   City   Penitentiary.     The   beauty 


NEW    YORK    AND    BROOKLYN. 


561 


of   the   place    is   not    lost   by  the   uses  to  which    it    is  put,  while    its  interest  is  enhanced 
by  its  fine    buildings  and   imposing  official  character. 

Brooklyn  lies  directly  opposite  to  New  York ;  it  spreads  seaward  along  Long-Island 
shore  toward  the  Narrows,  and  extends  along  East  River  for  some  miles.  It  is  a  city 
without  public   buildings    of   interest,  and    without    a    commerce    of   its    own,  being    little 


Hell   Gate. 


more  than  New  York's  vast  dormitory.  It  is  a  very  attractive  city,  however,  on  account 
of  its  handsome  streets,  its  home-like  residences,  its  many  churches,  and  one  or  two 
highly  picturesque  spots.  Clinton  Avenue  is  considered  the  most  elegant  of  the  streets. 
It  is  not  unlike  the  tree-embowered,  villa-lined  avenues  of  many  other  cities  ;  although 
unexcelled,  it  is  perhaps  quite  equalled  by  some  of  its  rivals.  The  residences  on  the 
Heights  are  choicely  situated,  commanding  from  their  rear  windows  views  of  New  York, 
the  river,  and  the    bay — a   wonderfully  brilliant  and  stirring  picture. 

Brooklyn    boasts    of   a  handsome  public  park,  of  five  hundred  and  fifty  acres  in  ex- 
tent, and  known  as  Prospect  Park.     It  is  situated  on  an  elevated  ridge  on  the  southwest 


Blackwell's    Island. 


border  of  the  city,  affording,  from  many  points,  extensive  views  of  the  ocean,  Long- 
Island  Sound,  the  bays,  and  New-York  Harbor.  Fine,  broad  ways  lead  out  from  the 
park,  one  reaching  to  Coney  Island,  on  the  Atlantic,  three  miles  distant.  There  are 
beautiful  groves  of  old  trees  in  the  park,  a  lake,  summer-houses,  etc.,  its  natural  advan- 
tages having  been   supplemented  by  many  tasteful  devices  of  the  landscape-gardener. 


142 


PROSPECr     PARK,     BROOKLYN. 


BROOKLYN     STREET-SCENES. 


564 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


Within  the  precincts  of  Brooklyn,  on  what  were  once  called  Gowanus  Heights,  is 
Greenwood,  the  handsomest  cemetery,  probably,  in  the  world.  It  is  over  four  hundred 
acres  in  extent,  beautiful,  undulating,  covered  with  ancient  trees  of  many  kinds,  and 
varied  with  several  lakes — a  very  rural  paradise  in  its  natural  attractions,  while  art  and 
pious   devotion  have  graced  it  with  many  noble  monuments. 

Brooklyn,  in  size,  is  the  third  city  of  the  Union.  It  has  been  almost  as  rapid  in 
its  growth  as  some  of  the  Western  cities.  In  1800  it  contained  only  four  thousand  in- 
habitants ;  in  1855,  after  the  incorporation  of  Williamsburgh,  two  hundred  and  five 
thousand;   while    now  (1874)  the  population  is  about  four  hundred  thousand. 

We  should  mention  that  the  Brooklyn  illustrations  are  not  by  Mr.  Fenn,  as  all  the 
New-York  drawings  are.  Prospect  Park  is  by  Mr.  Woodward  ;  the  Brooklyn  street- 
scenes  and  the  view  from  Greenwood  are  by  Mr.  Gibson, 


New-York    Bay,    from    Greenwood    Cemetery. 


WASHINGTON    AND    ITS    VICINITY. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS     BY    W.    L.     SHEPPARD. 


The  Capitol,  from  the  Botanic  Gardens. 

''  I  ^HE  site  chosen  by  the  first  Congress  for  the 
capital  of  the  United  States,  and  christened  by 
the  name  of  the  first  President,  is  a  broad  plateau, 
which,  on  the  eastern  side,  rises  to  a  graceful  eleva- 
tion, and  is  bounded  on  two  sides  by  the  river  Po- 
tomac and  its  tributary  called  the  "  Eastern  Branch." 
The  main  portion  of  the  city,  including  its  business 
quarter,  its  public  buildings,  its  main  thoroughfares,  and  its  aristocratic  residences,  stands 
upon  a  rather  level  plain,  terminated  at  the  rear  by  a  series  of  wooded  and  irregular 
hills ;  while  the  Capitol  rears  itself  upon  a  sloping  elevation,  and  overlooks  a  wide  ex- 
tent of  country. 

Washington  has  not,  until  within  comparatively  recent  years,  been  celebrated  for  its 
beauty.  Formerly  it  was  an  unattractive  place,  composed  in  large  part  of  low  and 
mostly  wooden  buildings,  with  streets  ill-paved  and  little  cared  for.  Now  the  na- 
tional metropolis,  thanks  to  liberal  expenditures    and    a    newly-born    pride  in  the  govern- 


566 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


ment  that  its  seat  should  be  worthy  of  its  distinction,  presents  an  aspect  not  only  of 
prosperity,  but  of  sights  agreeable  to  the  eye  and  mostly  in  good  taste.  Its  adornment 
has  betrayed  that  its  natural  advantages  were  greater  than  had  been  supposed  ;  and  the 
seeker  after  the  picturesque  may  find  ample  opportunity  to  gratify  his  quest  while  ob- 
serving, at  "  magnificent  distances,"  the  official  palaces  which  have  been  erected  at  the 
service  of  the  republic. 

The  most  striking  object  at  Washington  is  undoubtedly  the  magnificent  white- 
marble  Capitol,  a  glimpse  of  which  is  caught  as  the  city  is  approached  by  rail  from  Bal- 
timore. It  rises  majestically  far  above  all  surrounding  objects,  amid  a  nest  of  thick  and 
darkly  verdant  foliage,  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  to  which  it  gives  its  name  ;  its  very 
lofty  dome,  with  its  tiers  of  columns,  its  rich  ornamentation,  and  its  summit  surmounted 
by  the  colossal  statue  of  Liberty,  presents  a  noble  appearance,  and  may  be  seen  for 
many  miles  around  ;  while  its  broad,  white  wings,  low  in  proportion  to  the  dome,  give 
an  idea  of  spaciousness  which  no  palace  of  European  potentate  surpasses.  There  are 
few  more  beautiful — though  there  are  many  larger — 
parks  in  the  United  States  than  that  which  surrounds 
the  Capitol,  The  edifice  is  approached  through  an 
avenue  entered  by  high  iron  gates  ;  on  either  side  of 
this  are  beautiful  flower-plots,  paths  shaded  by  arch-  *"  " 
ing  branches,  fountains,  and  copses.     A   double  tier  of  *  -:^  % 

green     terraces    is    ascended    before    the    base    of    the  ~''-- 


Capitol,  Western  Terrace. 


WASHINGTON   AND    ITS    VICINITY. 


567 


Capitol  is  reached  ;  then  you  find  yourself  on  a  broad  marble  terrace,  semicircular 
in  form,  with  a  large  fountain  beside  you,  whence  you  may  see  the  silvery  windings 
of  the  Potomac  miles  away,  disappearing  at  last  amid  the  abundant  foliage  where  the 
Maryland  and  Virginia  coasts  seem  to  blend  in  the  far  distance.  From  this  look- 
out you  may  discern  every  part  of  the  metropolis  ;  in  the  midst  of  the  mass  of  houses 
rise  the  white-marble  Post-Office  Department  and  the  yet  handsomer  Patent-Office  just 
beside  it.  Some  distance  farther  on  is  to  be  descried  the  long  colonnade  of  the  Treasury, 
and  the  top  of  the  White  House,  just  beyond,  peeps  from  among  the  crests  of  flourish- 
ing groups  of  trees  ;  more  to  the  left  are  seen  the  picturesque,  castle-like,  red-sandstone 
towers  and    turrets  of  the  Smithsonian   Institution,  standing  solitary  on  a  broad  plain  al- 


In  the  White-House  Grounds. 


ready  sprouting  with  young  foliage.  Between  the  Smithsonian  and  the  creek  the  unfin- 
ished shaft  of  the  Washington  Monument,  a  square  marble  torso  of  desolate  appearance, 
meets  the  view ;  while  the  eye,  spanning  the  Potomac,  may  catch  sight,  in  the  distance, 
of  that  lordly  old  manor-house  of  Arlington,  identified,  in  very  different  ways,  with  the 
earlier  and  later  history  of  the  country.  Georgetown  Heights  form  the  far  background 
in  the  west  ;  more  to  the  north,  the  picturesque  hills,  with  their  wild,  straggling  growths, 
which,  from  the  main  suburbs  and  sites  of  suburban  residences  of  the  city,  form  a  strik- 
ing framework  to  the  scene.  A  small  park  also  stretches  out  at  the  rear  of  the 
Capitol,  on  the  east.     This  presents,  however,  nothing  notable  in  scenery,  its  chief  adorn- 


568 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


ment  being  the  sitting  statue  of  Washington,  in  Roman  costume,  which  has  been  so 
sharply  criticised  and  so  warmly  defended.  Just  outside  the  limits  of  this  park  stands 
the  "  Old  Capitol,"  a  quaint  brick  building  used  by  Congress  when  the  Capitol  was 
burned  by  the  British  in  1814,  in  which  Calhoun  died,  and  which  was  used  as  a  prison 
during  the  late  war. 

At  the  opposite  end  of  the  city  from  the  Capitol  is  the  group  of  departments  sur- 
rounding the  presidential  mansion,  and  enclosing  with  it  pleasant,  umbrageous  parks  and 
grounds.  On  one  side  are  the  Treasury  and  new  State  Departments  ;  on  the  other,  the 
rather    plain,    old-fashioned,    cosey-looking    War    and    Navy    Departments — oddly  enough 


Smithsonian  Institution,  near  White-House  Grounds. 


the  most  placid  and  modest  of  the  Washington  purlieus.  The  White  House  is  situated 
midway  between  these  two  groups  of  edifices,  and  is  completely  surrounded  by  open  and 
ornamental  spaces.  In  front  of  its  high,  glaringly  white  portico,  with  its  porte  cochere,  is 
a  lawn,  in  the  centre  of  which  is  a  corroded  copper  statue  of  President  Jefferson.  This 
lawn  reaches  to  the  thoroughfare,  beyond  which  is  Lafayette  Square,  thickly  planted  with 
trees,  among  which  stands  Clark  Mills's  equestrian  statue  of  Washington,  and  sur- 
rounded by  elegant  residences  occupied  by  senators,  diplomats,  cabinet  ministers,  and 
wealthy  bankers.  The  most  picturesque  view  of  the  White  House,  however,  is  from  its 
rear.     The  front    is    not    imposing.     At   the    back,  a  small    but    beautiful    park,  profusely 


143 


570 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


o 

O 


adorned  with  plants  and  flow- 
ers, varied  by  artificial  hil- 
locks, and  spread  with  close- 
ly -  trimmed  lawns,  stretches 
off  to  a  high  -  road  sepa- 
rated from  it  by  a  high  wall. 
This  park  is  open  to  the 
public ;  and  the  chief  magis- 
trate and  his  family  may  en- 
joy its  cheerful  prospect  from 
a  handsome,  circular  portico, 
supported  by  high,  round  pil- 
lars, with  solid  arches  below, 
and  a  broad  stone  staircase 
winding  up  on  either  side, 
fairly  overgrown  with  ivy 
and  other  clinging  parasites. 
The  most  prominent  object 
seen  from  these  "  President's 
grounds"  is  the  red  Smithso- 
nian Institution,  which  from 
here  seems  a  very  feudal  cas- 
tle set  down  amid  scenes  cre- 
ated by  modern  art.  Beyond 
the  presidential  mansion  and 
the  cluster  of  department 
buildings,  Pennsylvania  Ave- 
nue stretches  over  a  flat  and 
comparatively  sparsely-settled 
district,  until,  by  a  sudden 
turn,  it  leads  to  the  ancient, 
irregular,  and  now  rather  unin- 
teresting town  of  Georgetown. 
Its  former  commercial  bustle 
has  departed  from  it ;  for 
Georgetown  is  older  than  its 
larger  and  more  celebrated 
neighbor,  and  was  once  the 
third    or  fourth    river-port    in 


WASHINGTON  AND   ITS  VICINITY. 


571 


the  United  States.  It  is  still,  however,  a  more  picturesque  place  than  Washington  ;  built 
mostly  on  hills,  which  rise  above  the  Potomac,  affording  really  beautiful  views  of  the  river 
and  its  umbrageous  shores.  The  town  has  many  of  those  substantial  old  red-brick  man- 
sions where  long  ago  dwelt  the  political  and  social  aristocracy,  and  which  are  to  be 
found  in  all  Virginia  and  Maryland  towns  of  a  century's  age,  surrounded  often  with  high 
brick  walls,  approached  by  winding  and  shaded  avenues,  sometimes  with  high-pillared  por- 
ticos, and  having,  over  the  doors  and  windows,  some  attempt  at  modest  sculptured  orna- 
mentation. From  Red  Hill,  which  rises  by  pretty  slopes  at  the  rear  of  Georgetown,  a 
fine  view  is  had  of  the  wide,  winding  river.  The  Potomac,  just  below,  takes  a  broad 
sweep  from  west  to  east  ;    and,  at  the    place  where    it    is    spanned    by  the    famous  Long 


Glimpse  of   Georgetown,   from   Analostan  Island. 


Bridge,  over  which  the  troops  passed  from  Washington  to  their  defeat  at  Bull  Run,  it 
seems  to  form  almost  a  lake.  Washington  itself  is  descried  between  the  trees  from  the 
east  of  Red  Hill  ;  in  the  dim  distance,  the  shore  of  Maryland,  lofty  in  places,  and  re- 
treating southeastward  ;  and,  on  the  immediate  right,  the  more  attractive  Virginian  shore, 
with  a  glimpse  of  the  historic  estate  of  Arlington.  A  large  aqueduct  connects  George 
town  with  this  Virginian  shore  ;  and  the  views  from  every  point  of  it  are  full  of  at- 
tractive interest. 

Now  the  Potomac  is  just  below  you  ;  its  stream  not  so  turbidly  yellow  as  it  be- 
comes farther  down.  The  Capitol,  white  and  majestic,  looms  high  above  the  metropolis, 
the  rest  of  which  seems  a  confused  mass  of  houses  and  spires ;  verdant  meadows,  past- 
ures, and    natural    lawns,    sweeping    down    by   gentle  inclinations  beneath   elms  and  oaks. 


,jMAn 


574 


PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 


are  seen  on  the  shore  you  are  approaching ;  while  quite  near  at  hand  the  portico  of 
Arlington  rises  on  the  summit  of  a  higher  slope,  embedded  in  the  richest  Virginian 
foliage.  Just  below,  not  far  from  the  shore,  lies  a  picturesque  little  island,  Analostan, 
which  would  almost  seem  to  have  floated  from  some  Old-World  waters,  and  been  moved 
quite  out  of,  its  sphere,  in  the  midst  of  a  young  country.  For  it  betrays,  half  hidden 
amid  creepers  and  shrubbery,  which  have  for  many  years  been  permitted  to  grow  there 
unforbidden,  what  seem  remains  of  ancient  habitations.  One  might  fancy  that  it  had 
some  time  been  the  site  of  a  baronial  stronghold,  now  fallen  in  ruins  and  deserted. 
Here,  in  reality,  in  the  early  days  of  the  republic,  lived  a  sturdy  old  Virginian  gentle- 
man of  aristocratic  descent  and  rank,  who  played  no    insignificant    part  in  the  formation 


Arlington  Heights,   from  Grounds  in  National  Observatory. 


of  the  government,  and  for  some  time  represented  his  native  State  in  the  old  Congress. 
This  was  George  Mason.  He  carried  the  aristocratic  idea  of  lordly  seclusion  to  the  ex- 
tent of  seating  himself  on  this  lonely,  well-shaded  island,  where  he  built  an  old-fashioned 
Virginia  manor-house,  and  resided  in  it  in  solitary  state.  But,  after  his  death,  it  seems 
to  have  been  deserted,  and  now  only  serves  to  adorn  the  landscape  with  a  somewhat  cu- 
rious and  peculiar  feature.  The  walk  from  the  aqueduct  to  Arlington  is  by  a  road  whence 
continual  glimpses  of  the  river  are  to  be  had  through  the  wild-wood,  where  the  shrub- 
bery grows    tangled  and  rude,  and  wild-grapes,  in    particular,  abound.     Arlington    is    now 


WASHINGTON  AND   ITS    VICINITY. 


575 


no  longer  what  it  was  before  the  days  of  war  and  consequent  change  of  occupancy 
came.  Those  who  remember  it  when  Mr.  Custis,  its  venerable  owner,  was  still  alive, 
preserve  the  impression  of  an  ideal  old  Virginia  manor  and  estate — one,  indeed,  which 
an  English  noble  would  not  have  been  ashamed  to  own.  Its  site  is  a  most  imposing 
one  ;  the  lawn  sweeps  broadly  down  from  its  striking,  ample  porch  for  several  hundred 
feet  toward  the  river  ;  its  interior,  in  Mr.  Custis's  time,  was  a  perfect  reproduction  of  an 
aristocratic  Virgi-nia  interior  of  a  century  ago.  The  road  was  pointed  out  by  which 
Washington  used  to  ride  from  Mount  Vernon,  a  distance  often  or  twelve  miles;  and 
every  nook  and  corner  preserved    some    relic  or  reminder  of  the  Father  of  his  Country, 


Fort  Washington. 


many  of  them  bequeathed  by  him  to  Mr.  Custis,  who  was  his  adopted  son.  All  about 
the  place  had  the  aspect  of  wealth,  antiquity,  and  aristocratic  ease  ;  and,  from  the  porch, 
it  was,  and  still  is,  possible  to  have  a  very  picturesque  view  of  the  capital  cityr  from  the 
Capitol  to  where  the  city  merges  into  Georgetown. 

The  Potomac,  for  several  miles  north  as  well  as  south  of  Washington,  is  bordered 
by  attractive  landscapes.  One  of  the  pleasantest  walks  in  that  vicinity  is  from  George- 
town northward  along  the  banks  of  the  canal,  with  the  artificial  water-course  on  one 
side,  and  the  broad,  winding,  and  here  rather  rapid  river  appearing  every  moment  on  the 
other.     A  mile  from  Georgetown  by  this  road,  you  never  would    imagine    that  you  were 


576  PICTURESQUE    AMERICA. 

in  so  close  a  proximity  to  one  of  the  "  centres  of  civilization."  The  scenery  is  wild, 
almost  rugged.  A  profusion  of  brush  and  shrubbery  mingles  with  the  forest-trees  along 
the  banks,  which  rise  in  continual  and  irregular  elevations ;  there  are  few  habitations, 
and  such  as  there  are  recall  the  former  social  status  of  the  border  States.  After  pro- 
ceeding thus  about  three  miles,  you  reach  Little  Falls,  which  have  no  other  pretensions 
to  distinction  than  that  they  are  surrounded  by  very  attractive  scenery,  and  form  a 
modest  cataract  winding  in  and  out  among  the  rocks  which  here  encounter  the  stream. 
Over  Little  Falls  is  a  high  bridge,  by  which  one  passes  in  a  minute  or  two  from  Mary- 
land into  Virginia.  Piled-up  rocks  line  the  shore,  and  anglers  from  the  metropolis  may 
often  be  found  perched  upon  them,  enjoying  the  very  good  fishing  which  the  spot  pro- 
vides. Great  Falls,  as  falls,  are  more  pretentious  than  Little  Falls ;  they  are  situated 
a  short  distance  above.  Here  the  water  foams  and  rushes  among  jagged  rocks,  forming 
numerous  cascades  and  pools  as  it  hastens  on.  In  this  region  the  Potomac  has  become 
a  comparatively  narrow  stream,  with  limpid  and  rapid  waters  ;  and  all  along  its  course, 
as  far  as  Harper's  Ferry,  its  valley  presents  a  varied,  unkempt  scenery,  which  makes  the 
jaunt  along  its  shores  a  thoroughly  pleasant  one. 

But,  on  the  Potomac  below  Washington,  where  it  is  now  broader  and  slower  in 
motion,  the  aspects  are  perhaps  more  worthy  of  inspection,  both  because  Nature  here  is 
more  genial  and  more  cultivated,  and  because  at  every  step  there  is  a  reminder  of 
some  historical  scene,  old  or  modern.  Passing  down  by  the  steamboat,  less  than  an  hour 
brings  you,  between  verdant,  sloping  banks  dotted  by  well-to-do-looking  and  for  the 
most  part  venerable  country-houses,  to  the  landing-place,  whence  you  reach  Mount  Ver- 
non. It  is  unnecessary  to  describe  this  home  of  Washington,  so  familiar  to  every  citizen 
by  description  if  not  by  sight. 

On  either  side  of  the  river  are  Forts  Washington,  Foote,  and  other  strongholds,  fa- 
miliar to  the  history  of  the  war  of  the  rebellion.  The  view  northward  from  Fort  Foote 
is  especially  fine,  comprehending  the  view  at  its  widest,  bay-like  expanse,  and  bringing  into 
clear  relief  the  city  of  Washington,  with  the  bright  dome  still  dominating  all  surround- 
ing objects  ;  while  the  shores  in  the  immediate  foreground  are  composed  of  gentle  cliffs 
crowned  with  the  rich  growths  of  that  Southern  clime/^ 


THE       END. 

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